


The Human Experience

by angelzoo (shades_0f_cool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Angst and Feels, Body Worship, Bottom Castiel, Canon Compliant, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Coming Untouched, Dean in Denial, Dry Humping, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Humor, Inexperienced Castiel, Lots of kissing, M/M, POV Dean, Rimming, Sexual Tension, Smut, Top Dean, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-06-06 20:04:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15202433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shades_0f_cool/pseuds/angelzoo
Summary: When Cas asks Dean about what kissing is like, Dean doesn’t see why he shouldn’t just show him the real deal. Starting is surprisingly easy. Stopping, however, is a completely different matter.





	1. Heat of the Moment

“Dean.”

Dean’s already on the verge of falling asleep, but Cas’ voice pulls him back from the edge. It’s quiet, barely more than a whisper, and still, he hears. Hell, he could be knocked out cold and all you’d need for him to be up and running again is that infuriatingly calm voice in his ear. It’s like… a sense. Just like seeing or hearing or tasting, Dean _feels_ whenever Cas reaches out to him. It’s … fucking weird. As if they are bonded to each other somehow and honestly, the last thing Dean needs is being connected to some exiled not-really-angel-anymore via a bond that makes his whole body whirr whenever Cas does so much as speak his name. Very much like he’s doing right now, and fuck, there it is again. The goddamn whirr inside his veins, the soft tingle raising every hair on his body.

“Dean. I know you are not sleeping,” Cas says.

It’s pitch black inside their motel room, which makes Dean wonder how Cas knows he’s wide awake and staring at the dark ceiling. He guesses their dumb bond works both ways. Shame, that, because now Dean can’t fake being asleep anymore.

“What’s up?” he asks, tongue strangely heavy in his mouth.

“I … I have a favor to ask.” It sounds strange, because one, of course it does, this is _Cas_ and two, everything he says sounds a tiny bit strange. But this is a different kind of strange, a new one Dean doesn’t know yet. It’s almost tentative. Shy. If Cas would know how shy worked, that is.

“Right now?” Dean murmurs, tilting his head just enough to sneak a glance at the clock next to him, “It’s 2.30 in the morning, man.”

“Yes. It cannot wait.”

There’s shuffling in the room, which is how Dean knows Cas is on the move. It’s one of the rare nights Sam’s gotten lucky, or more like, allowed himself to be, so it’s only Dean, and now Cas, in the room. He’s closer now, just a few feet away from the bed if Dean’s hearing is anything to go by. He doesn’t know why, but something’s happening the closer Cas gets, as if every step he takes is the epicenter of a tiny earthquake that’s stirring the atmosphere. Too bad Dean’s on the receiving end of that natural disaster.

He takes another step and then he’s right next to where Dean’s curled up in the sheets. Dean can’t take the damn suspense. Cas is being weirder than usual and the lack of visibility only doubles the tension. Dean sits up with a huff, leaning over to fumble blindly for the light switch of the bedside lamp. The glow is warm and golden, thankfully not too bright, but it still takes Dean’s eyes a couple seconds to adjust and then they are on Cas, who’s looking at him as if he's hungry. It's not that Dean has never felt that kind of look on him before, or that he doesn't know exactly what it means. In fact, Dean's exceptionally well-acquainted with it. Just not when it's Cas it's coming from.

“What is it, Cas?” he sighs. “Ask. And then let me go back to sleep.”

Cas’ eyes wander over the comforter and Dean’s legs beneath it as if he’s looking for something. It makes Dean feel warm, or maybe that’s _hot_ he’s feeling, burning.

“May I sit?” Cas asks, pointing his finger to the bed. It looks ridiculous, but that’s just Cas.

Dean nods. “Go ahead.”

The mattress dips when he does, but Dean tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore the additional weight on his bed, the sudden proximity, the feeling of not being alone anymore. Dean doesn’t do well with being alone these days. Sure, he’ll do what he has to, but that doesn’t mean he’s peachy on his own, even if that is what he’s trying to make everyone believe—most of all, himself. Maybe Cas knows. Maybe damn Cas knows _everything_ there is to know about him.

“I have thought about something,” Cas begins. “I have had this vessel for quite some time now. Longer than I ever had a human body. I am ... curious, is it? This thing you did with the girl last week. What does it feel like?”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up before he can stop them. This is what this is about? Cas is discovering his sex drive and now what? Dean’s supposed to teach him the ins and outs? No, thanks. He bites back a sarcastic comment, because he realizes he’s not being fair. All Cas has ever known is how to be a good angel for god. Wallowing in human carnality? Think again. So apparently, inhabiting a human body comes with its perks in that regard. “You mean sex?”

Cas keeps a straight face. “No … what you did ... before that.”

“Flirting?” Geez, please don’t let it be flirting. There’s not enough time in the world to teach Cas how to be a good flirt.

Cas’ blue eyes drop to Dean’s lips, and he knows. He knows what it is Cas is getting at.

“You mean kissing? The thing you do with your lips?” he asks.

His face is uncomfortably warm and he wishes he’d know _why_. This is just Cas and they are just talking about kissing, dammit. There’s no need for his clammy palms or the flutter of his heart.

“Yes,” Cas confirms. “The thing you do with your lips.”

What’s Dean supposed to say? He’s never been one for flowery prose, so he replies with a casual, “Good. It feels good.”

Cas continues to stare at his lips. Then he reaches out and brushes the pad of his thumb across Dean’s mouth. It takes everything Dean has to stay still and act unaffected. Why he has to act in the first place is anybody’s guess. Being touched by Cas shouldn’t leave him reeling like this. He watches as Cas pulls back and touches his own lips with the same thumb that’s just touched Dean. The display is strangely ... sweet. Clumsy. Cas is a grown man, at least from what anyone can see, and yet he’s never even kissed someone. Has never _been_ kissed. It doesn’t seem fair. He’s saving the world, for Christ’s sake (literally), the guy deserves letting loose once in a while.

“You wanna try it?” Dean asks.

He’s not implying anything, he thinks, but really, he is. He’s never kissed a man before, but Cas … he’s different. Things are different with him, _every_ single thing is different. He’s the exception to every rule Dean has ever imposed on himself.

“Yes.” It’s soft and lacks emotion, but there’s a little sizzle Dean’s picking up on. Could be in the air or in their weird connection, but it’s definitely there. Cas wants this. He wants it bad, so Dean thinks _fuck it._

He means to take it slow, like every first kiss is supposed to be. He means to cup the back of Cas’ neck and bring him in for the softest touch of their lips, just a little taste of what could be. Yeah, that’s how Dean _meant_ for this to go, but then he’s kissing Cas— _he’s kissing Cas—_ and taking it slow has never been further from his mind. Because suddenly, there’s this hunger, unlike anything Dean’s ever felt before, burning through his body, seeping into his bones. Cas doesn’t kiss back, which can probably be appointed to the fact that Dean is too fucking overwhelming for what’s supposed to be a first kiss, but damn, he can’t stop. It’s like the soft warmth of Cas’ lips is what scratches every single itch inside him, it’s soothing just as much as it’s breathtaking, and he _just_ _cannot fucking stop_ kissing him. There are soft moans spilling past Cas’ lips, dancing over Dean’s tongue until he swallows them down, because honestly, they are Dean’s to own.

“Open your mouth,” Dean says gruffly in between one scorching kiss and the next. There’s another tingle of excitement rushing through him when Cas doesn’t even take a moment to comply, and then Dean’s the one who’s moaning. He licks into Cas’ mouth, feels up his wet warmth with the tip of his tongue in search of more of those delicious little noises Cas makes without understanding why. There are plenty. If there’s a way to stop Dean from claiming Cas more than he is, more than he’s about to, this sure as hell is _not_ the way to do it.

“Dean.” It’s a goddamn whisper, breathy and hot and a wrecking ball on Dean’s self-control.

His hands cup the back of Cas’ neck, fingers twisting in his hair and yes, it’s just as silky smooth as it looks. Slight pressure is all he’s applying and then Cas is lying down, his trench coat spread out on the crumpled comforter, and Dean moves over him on his hands and knees, trapping Cas’ body beneath his own.

“How does it feel?” he whispers, lips trailing down the side of Cas’ neck, licking at the skin to taste salt and warmth and Cas. “Tell me.”

For a moment, Cas can’t respond. Dean knows he’s trying from the way Cas’ Adam’s apple is bobbing against Dean’s lips, but he’s probably failing to come up with a decent enough description.

“Like you said,” he breathes finally. “It feels good. So good. Keep going, Dean, please. Don’t stop.”

Yeah … what tiny bit of control Dean might have had left at this point disappears into thin air when he hears Cas practically beg for it. For _him_.

He presses open-mouthed kisses to every part of Cas he can reach, teasing the skin into a gorgeous pink hue, then he goes lower until he meets the collar of his dress shirt. Popping open only _one_ button would probably be a mistake. Hell, scratch that, it’s _definitely_ a mistake, because Dean knows he won’t be able to stop once he’s started getting rid of Cas’ clothes. He’s already dying to see more of his skin, more of his body, more of him. All of him.

Cas reads his mind. “Take it off.”

There’s no hesitance in the command, so Dean takes his chance and makes good use of it. Buttons are a pest. Dean doesn’t have the patience to make a sexy show of popping one after the other, so he grabs the lapels and rips, chuckling when Cas gasps and the buttons meet the floor and roll to where they’d never find them.

Dean brushes off Cas’ trench coat and his now-ruined shirt, leaving his chest and stomach open to his gaze. It’s more than Dean had anticipated. More than he could’ve asked for. Cas’ skin is smooth and soft, tone chest speckled with a fine dusting of dark hair. And those nipples, god _damn_. They are dark and tiny, standing at attention. Briefly, Dean wonders what Cas meant when he’d asked about kissing, and if it would entail kissing more than just his lips, because Dean wants to get his lips on those pretty buds something fierce.

“Can I—”

“Yes,” Cas cuts him off. “Anything you want, Dean.”

Cas feels perfect against his fingertips, skin flushed and hot to the touch. Dean runs his palms down his sides, grabbing Cas’ hips to reposition him so all of him is on the bed and Dean has easy access to every part he wants to touch. Cas is still. He probably has no idea how to react to Dean’s caresses, his kisses, his exploring. Is he going too far? Is this too much? If only his brain wasn’t so hopelessly muddled with feral desire, he’d probably be able to contemplate the question and come to his damn senses. But as it is, he’s nowhere near reasonable. Hell, he’s not even coherent.

Dean moves in between Cas’ legs and spreads them. The way his thighs curl around Dean’s makes him suck in a sharp breath. The position puts Cas on delicious display; like this, Dean can see the bulge straining against the fly of his dress pants. All he’d have to do is get rid of those charcoal gray pants and he’d have Cas all to himself, without any clothes in between; bare. But thank god—or whatever force is commanding him right now—for being lucid enough to realize that tonight’s not the night to take Cas all the way. No, tonight is about teaching him how to kiss and how to _be_ kissed, and based on the way Cas is trembling all over and biting at his swollen lips, Dean’s doing a fabulous job with that.

“Dean, I—” Whatever he meant to say is cut off with another one of Cas’ irresistible little gasps when Dean’s wet lips close around one dark nipple and suck, hard. He’s perfect; perfect how he fits into Dean’s mouth, how he perks up a little more with every languid stroke. Dean’s painfully hard by now, his hips rutting against Cas’ in a desperate attempt to find at least a little bit of friction to take off the edge. Cas' muscles ripple beneath the ivory of his skin, coaxing Dean to follow every movement they make with his tongue.

“Dean, kiss me again … here,” Cas whispers.

Dean looks up, finding Cas’ blue eyes instantly. Cas’ fingers are on his lips, mouth open and waiting, and Dean’s a goner. He kisses his way up Cas’ chest, only making a brief stop to suckle on his collarbone, and then he’s back to claim that perfect mouth. Cas is obviously a quick learner, because now, he’s imitating Dean’s lips, his tongue, as he tentatively prods at the corner of Dean’s mouth. Entry is granted willingly, and then Dean’s the one being kissed breathless. Fuck. Nothing’s ever felt better, at least not anything Dean can remember. It’s like coming alive. _Again_.

Cas grabs his shoulders, a little harder than necessary but Dean loves it—this innocuous display of power—and then Dean’s flipped on his back and finds himself pushed into the mattress by a very hot and very eager angel in his lap. The angle’s _just_ right. Apparently, it’s the same for Cas, because the initial slow roll of his clothed erection against Dean’s is what whets his appetite.

“Oh god, yes … Do that again, Cas, come on,” Dean rasps, breathing a mess.

They are kissing again, along with the teasing rut Cas does as if he’s been born for it. Dean’s fucking close, so damn close to the edge, to coming untouched. And he wants to. He wants to have Cas make him come in his jeans like a goddamn teenager, wants to find out if an orgasm is what it takes to make Cas’ stoic mask slip.

“Cas …” he moans, “Touch me.”

Cas doesn’t stop kissing him, not even when his hand slips into the heated space between their bodies to close around Dean’s rock-hard cock in his jeans, and it’s what does Dean in. Just the feeling of Cas’ hand wrapping around him, even over his pants, combined with his lips on his own is more than enough to get him there, and he’s falling. His orgasm slams into him like a demon on rampage. For a moment, he forgets where he is. His eyes roll back into his head, mouth open on a silent scream. He’s breathing heavily, _still_ breathing heavily when he comes back down. His hands are fisting the sheets to either side of him, and for one terrifying moment, he thinks everything’s been a dream he’s just woken from. But then Cas is there, curled into his side, watching him with those endless blue eyes of his.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks.

There’s so much genuine concern in his voice, which is so utterly emotional and so utterly unlike Cas that Dean has to smile. He can’t help himself, and he can’t stop either. It has to be the afterglow he can’t seem to come off of.

“No,” Dean says, reaching up to stroke Cas’ cheek. “On the contrary.”

Cas doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but the soft expression on Dean’s features must be enough to let it go.

“Did I hurt _you?_ ” Dean asks in return. There are dark kiss marks on Cas’ … well, everywhere.

“No, Dean. But I—” he averts his eyes and swallows.

Dean’s eyes widen. He leans on his elbow to reach Cas’ fly, opening it just enough to slip one hand inside. Cas’ eyes flutter closed, just like Dean’s, when he feels wetness moistening his fingertips.

“You came?” he asks, incredulous, eyes still closed as he feels his way around Cas’ underwear.

“Is this what it is called?” Cas asks. “Coming? It felt more like exploding to me.”

Dean laughs. “Well, I guess that’s another way to describe it. But yes, us humans say coming.”

“Ah.”

Dean tugs off Cas’ pants and then his own before they end up under the sheets together. Dean’s never been much of a cuddler, but as previously established, things are different with Cas. So as soon as they settle next to each other, Dean’s bare toes brush along Cas’ calf, mapping out its curve.

“So, what did it for you?” Dean asks, fingertip tracing a hickey on Cas’ throat.

“What … did it for me?”

“Yeah, as in … I mean, _what_ made you … explode?”

Cas shuffles infinitesimally closer to Dean. For a second there, Dean’s worried Cas can actually feel the rabid beating of his heart now and declare him a hopeless sap.

“You, Dean.”

“Duh.” Dean rolls his eyes, because yes, Cas had better come because of _him_. Anything else would be an insult. Dean’s hand is in Cas’ damp hair when Cas slips closer to him still, now audibly inhaling his scent. “I mean what exactly got you there?”

“Oh,” Cas breathes. “Your face when you … came. You are very beautiful, Dean.”

Dean stays quiet. All he does is pull Cas closer, and if it’s only to hide his dopey smile in Cas’ hair, that’s his own business. Cas has just told him Dean’s o-face is the reason he’s spilled himself in his pants, which is literally the hottest thing Dean’s ever heard. Cas may have never done anything sexual, never experienced it, but heavens, he’s a goddamn natural. And now that Dean’s been Cas’ first kiss, he kinda wants to be his first for everything else, too. Romantic? Yeah ... try fucked up.


	2. Can't Fight This Feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates weekly, apparently >:) enjoy!

It’s early morning when Dean wakes. A long time ago, he’s been taught how to estimate the time without fancy tools like cellphones or watches; now he can tell just by reading the signs. It’s vital for every time he’s on his own, every time his life depends on something important like knowing the right time of day. It’s happened before. Actually, it’s happened a lot.

Based on the the sun’s location, angle and light, Dean guesses it’s around seven a.m. Most people would say the sun’s weak at seven in the morning, but Dean has always liked to think it’s soft. When someone’s confronted with as much darkness as he is, it’s nice to remember there’s actually a sliver of light left, even if it’s just coming from the infallible course of the sun.

He stretches, relishing the scratchy feeling of worn-out sheets across his skin. Apparently, he’s decided to sleep in the nude for whatever reason—it doesn’t matter, because it’s nice. Remarkably nice, especially with that smooth, warm body curled around him that’s—coincidentally—just as naked as Dean. God, how he loves mornings like these.

“Hello, Dean.”

It takes about half a minute for Dean to connect that voice to Cas and then the memories of last night slam into him with a force that renders him breathless.

He’s… he’s kissed Cas. He’s ripped his fucking clothes off of him, touched him, kissed him. He got off to him. In his pants.  

Dean has no idea why this happened or how the fuck it got so out of hand, all he knows it that he can’t do this. He can’t do snuggling up with Cas under sheets that smell like sweat and sex and them, together. He can’t do Cas’ soft whisper of _hello, Dean_ and he sure as hell can’t do the stupid urge to kiss Cas again.

He opens his mouth and if there’s been any intention of being delicate about the situation, it’s in vain. “Fuck.”

Cas shifts, undoubtedly so he can look at Dean and find out what’s wrong, but doesn’t make a move to untangle either himself _or_ his legs from Dean otherwise.

“Dean—” It’s breathy and urgent, and full of _more._

“No,” Dean says, sharper than intended. “Don’t say my name like that.”

He jumps out of bed as if it’s on fire and starts looking for a fresh set of clothes. Where is his bag? His boxers? Where is his anything?

“Like what?” Cas asks.

“Like—” Dean stops. Yeah, like what? Like he’s seen him naked? Like he’s made him come (twice)? Because that’s a resounding yes on both accounts, which gives Cas the right to say Dean’s name exactly like that. “Just… don’t.”

Dean’s found a fresh pair of boxers and wastes no time stepping into them. Being naked in Cas’ presence feels… wrong. Which is fucking ridiculous, when he thinks about the night they’ve just spent together. Once Dean gets his hands on his jeans and everything downstairs is safely tucked away, he finally looks at Cas, and dammit if that isn’t a mistake. Dean’s rushed departure from the bed has pushed the sheets all the way down to the bottom of the mattress, leaving Cas bare and so beautifully vulnerable. Seeing Cas naked comes with all sorts of… effects. There’s the sudden pounding of his heart for one thing, and the animated twitching of his cock for another. Cas’ pale skin is littered with kiss marks, dark kiss marks that are a far cry from fading anytime soon. That’s where the heart-pounding is coming from, because Dean’s claimed Cas, left his mark on him, even if it’s only temporary. The twitching in his jeans though is because of Cas’ dick, which is swollen and flushed, curling thickly up against his stomach.

Dean gasps. Then he blurts, “You’re naked.”

Cas’ eyes wander over his body. “Yes. You took my clothes off.”

Well, he’s not wrong, so there’s little other choice but to come up with a Plan B. “That doesn’t explain why you’re hard, though. Dammit, Cas. Why are you hard?”

“Because you took _your_ clothes off.”

If Dean didn’t know better, he’d accuse Cas of being cheeky. And Cas being cheeky is not helping the continuous twitching in his pants in the least. Here they are, Cas sitting in the midst of beautifully rumpled sheets, naked and visibly aroused. He’s also staring again, from Dean’s face all the way to his bare feet and up again. There’s something akin to hunger in his gaze, not yet full-fledged because he’s only just learning what it means to want someone. To want Dean. And fuck, because Dean wants to be the one to teach him. He wants to take off the jeans he’s just put on, his underwear, and slip back into bed with Cas to continue where they left off. The urge is overwhelming, but Dean knows how to control himself, so he manages to resist. Barely. Whatever this error of judgment last night was, Dean has to snap out of it. Yeah, he was alone and sentimental, Cas was there and he was asking what it’s like to be kissed, so is Dean really to blame? He’s not the first to make a wrong call when it comes to seeking distraction in some hot fooling around. And Cas _is_ pretty damn hot, especially when he doesn’t try to be. Like right now, as he's gingerly thumbing his nipple to inspect the impressive hickey coloring it two shades darker than usual. Or the way he sucks in a sharp breath while he does.

Dammit.

No.

Cas is his friend; he’s basically family. They are on a mission to save the planet and millions of lives, there’s no time for pointless shenanigans like being human with Cas, and Dean has no idea why he has to remind himself of that. It should be his top priority, so maybe it’s high time for his wake up call, because what’s happened between them? It can’t happen again.

“Get dressed,” Dean says, throwing Cas his shirt and fighting down the mental flash of tucking Cas’ pale flesh into it. “Sam will be here any minute now. He can’t see us like this.”

Cas grabs the shirt and slips it over his shoulders. “Why not?”

“ _Because_ , Cas,” Dean says, “this isn’t supposed to happen between us. It’s just not. You get it?”

Cas does not get it, but he nods anyway. And then he looks up to stare at Dean. “You regret it.”

It’s not a question, merely a realization. Dean feels like the shittiest ass on this shitty planet. He doesn’t want to admit that he’s used Cas—who’s, by any standards, a virgin—for his selfish pleasures during a lonely night, just to throw him away at the first light of dawn. He doesn’t want to believe he’s this damn weak, even if that’s exactly what he is when it comes to Cas.

Another thing he apparently is is a coward, because he can’t even look Cas in the eye and tell him that yes, he regrets it _._

“It won’t happen again?” Cas asks. He sounds almost disappointed, which draws Dean’s gaze to him in an instant.

Cas is fumbling with the lapels of his shirt. Right... there aren’t any buttons. Dean has ripped them off because he couldn’t wait to get his mouth on the smooth, kissable skin underneath. In the light of day, it’s another painful reminder of Dean’s sorely lacking self-control.

He digs through his bag and produces a black AC/DC shirt that reads “Highway To Hell” and is just too perfect for the occasion.

“Here,” he says, handing it to Cas. “Wear that shirt. I’m sorry for… ruining yours.”

“I’m not, Dean. There’s no need to apologize.”

Their eyes meet and lock and it’s like Dean’s transferred back to last night; to feeling the same fierce hunger for Cas, the same need to touch every inch of him with his lips. Before he knows what he’s doing, his knee is up on the bed and his hands are in Cas’ hair, crushing their lips together in a kiss that is all tongues and teeth and need. It’s… perfect. It’s terrifying just _how_ perfect it is.

Cas holds onto Dean’s shoulders for dear life, and Dean realizes how easy it would be to push him back into the sheets and—

“Fuck.” Dean gasps.

He wrenches himself away from Cas’ lips, away from temptation, and staggers back. Cas makes a low sound of disapproval in response. His lips are pink and wet and so damn inviting, but Dean can’t allow himself a slip up. Another slip up, that is. This has to end here.

“Get dressed,” he breathes. “ _Please_.”

Cas has never been one to deny Dean’s wishes, and Dean doesn’t feel guilty about using that fact to his advantage now. He’s certain Cas just has to pack away the goods for Dean to return to his normal, un-horny self.

His eyes are drawn back to Cas when he rises from the bed to look for his underwear. When he turns, Dean’s rewarded with the prime view of Cas’ exquisite ass and that’s when he knows he has to hightail it out of there.

“I…” he trails off when Cas finds his briefs and slips them up along all the dips and curves of his legs; legs Dean’s so well-acquainted with now, and at the same time not nearly well-acquainted enough. “I’ll be out.”   

He doesn’t wait for Cas’ response. He just leaves, the door to the motel room shutting with a soft click behind him. Dean remains standing there for a second to catch his breath, then he turns to find some much-needed coffee.

 

* * *

 

“Now we just have to find out where the body’s buried,” Sam says over lunch. “God, just how many haunted houses do we have to clean up in our lifetime?”

Dean takes a sip from his water.

“Dean?”

Another sip.

“Dean!” Sam throws a french fry in his face. That does the trick.

“Gross,” Dean says, but picks up the fry and slips it in his mouth. “Is there anything valuable you want to bring to the table, Ronald McDonald?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I _was_ being very valuable, you know. You just chose to opt out.”

“Did not.”

“Yes, you did.” Sam sighs, his eyes searching Dean’s face. “What’s the matter with you today? Ever since I got back, you’ve been… off. Is it because of last night? You’ve never had a problem with me taking a breather once in a while.”

If Sam only knew about _last night_. God.

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” Dean concedes. “It’s just… I didn’t sleep well last night.” _Liar, it was the best sleep you had all year._ “Not sure what’s up my ass today.” _Try Cas._

Dean groans. All he wants to do is push last night to the furthest corner of his mind, but how is he supposed to do that when his brain is turning on him whenever he’s expected to say something appropriate?

“If something’s up, you can always talk to me, okay?” Sam says. He’s genuinely worried now, so Dean tries to crack a smile.

“Sure, let’s talk. Can we hold hands while doing it, too?”

Sam mumbles something undoubtedly unflattering under his breath and rolls his eyes at his brother’s sarcasm. Though he looks at him for another long moment before he shuffles through his research papers again. “We should probably take Cas. This witch is going to be tough to deal with and my leg’s still not entirely healed from our last stunt. We could use the backup.”

Dean can’t fathom being close to Cas again so soon, but he keeps his mouth shut. Sam’s right, they could use the backup, and while he’s apparently stupid when it comes to certain _things_ , he’s not stupid enough to risk their asses just because he’s uncomfortable around Cas.

So he nods. “Sure.”

It doesn’t even take a second for Cas to walk into the burger joint. He takes a seat at their table, his blue eyes fixing on Dean instantly. The staring isn’t new. It’s just that it feels new in light of what they’ve done to each other just a few short hours ago.

“You called?”

Dean averts his gaze. “Yeah… listen, it’s about the haunted house on Oak. You free to tag along tonight?”

“Yes, Dean. I’ll come.” Good god. If four words can be actual torture, those are, because now Dean thinks about last night and Cas whispering _yes, Dean_ before coming to the sight of Dean getting off on kissing him.

“Good,” Dean says. He’s shuffling in his seat, lunch all but forgotten, and Cas just doesn’t stop staring. It’s unnerving, but help him god, he's hopelessly turned on by it. Cas’ eyes are really something else. What would those deep blues look like while he’s down on his knees, wet lips stretching around Dean’s cock? Would they tear up? Glitter with desire? Flutter closed when the head of Dean’s cock touches the back of his throat and makes him gag?  

Great, and now he's hard.  

"Is everything alright, Dean?" Cas asks.  

Dean looks at Cas, straight into those eyes, and crosses his arms. "Yes, Dean is fine. Just dandy. Now can we please stop discussing that question?"  

"Hey, we're just worried about you," Sam says.

"I know." Dean sighs. "But there's no reason to be. Okay?"  

Sam nods and moves on to take a bite from his god-awful veggie burger, which is enough of an assurance for Dean, so he turns to Cas. "Okay?"  

For once, Cas is not staring at Dean. Well not Dean, per se, but his lap. His crotch. His suspicious-as-fuck crotch. A glance at Sam confirms he's still distracted by eating his burger, so Dean takes the chance to reach down and do some discreet rearranging. He doesn't care that he's doing it right in front of Cas. Serves him right for being so… so… so Cas.

"I'll be right back," Sam says. He wipes his hands on a napkin and heads for the restrooms at the back of the restaurant.  

Dean leans back in his seat and levels a mild glare at Cas. "Would you please stop staring at me?"

Cas tilts his head. "But I like staring at you."  

Dean's cheeks are not growing warm upon hearing that, there’s no way they are. That's just his imagination. "It's distracting."  

Cas seems to be thinking about that. Then he leans in close to Dean, so close that Dean can see the little spots of gold in the dark blue of Cas' eyes.  

"What are you doing?" Dean asks, internally cursing himself for sounding so breathless.  

"May I kiss you, Dean?"  

_Yes._

"No."  

Cas moves his fingers from where they are splayed on the tabletop, just so much that his pinky finger brushes Dean's thumb. They are barely touching and yet Dean’s fucking trembling because of it.  

"Why not?" Cas asks.  

It's unusual for Cas to question Dean's orders. It's a remnant of his angel days when he was serving God and disobedience meant a one-way ticket to angel prison. Dean wonders if Cas pressing him for an explanation now is evidence of how much he wants this. Which makes this the perfect time to shoot down any and all expectations last night has conjured.

"Cas," Dean says gently. "What we did... it can't happen again. Do you understand? No kissing, no touching, no... exploding. We're partners on a mission, which means we have to stay focused. What we can't do is allow ourselves to be distracted by human cravings."   

"But I..." Cas interlaces his fingers with Dean's. "It is like I need to do this. I see you and I need to... kiss you. Maybe this is an addiction? Can kissing be addictive to humans?"

Dean almost laughs out loud. How can he not? Cas is being so damn adorable about this, and hey, maybe he does have a point? Maybe kissing can be classified as an addiction, which would make about ninety percent of the human population addicts, himself included. And now Cas.  

"What you're feeling is lust," Dean says. "Now that you've been physical with someone—with me—you're starting to acquire a taste for it. You want more. That's normal. It's human. It’s just that… you and me, we’re too close to be doing this with each other."  

Dean tries to pull his hand away but Cas holds him tight, and for some utterly inexplicable reason, Dean is glad for it.  

"Are you telling me I should kiss someone else?"  

Dean's breath hitches in his throat. Does he want Cas to kiss someone else? Someone who's not him? Hell no. He wants to bend Cas over this table and kiss him senseless right here just to drive the point home, but then he remembers that he can't. He cannot kiss Cas. _Cannotcannotcannot._  

"No. Yes. I mean, you should take your time. There's no rush. It shouldn’t be some random nobody. It should be someone you really want to kiss."  

Cas looks at him, head tipped slightly. "I really want to kiss _you_."  

Dean gapes at him. Dammit, this is hard enough as it is, why does Cas keep trying to make it impossible? Because he has no idea how to not make it impossible, Dean reminds himself. This is uncharted territory for Cas, the guy literally just had his first kiss and now Dean's surprised Cas is trying to get more where that came from? The gravity of Dean's actions only starts to sink in now, along with a nagging concern for the consequences.

"W-well," Dean says. He takes a deep breath to regain control over everything that's going on a rampage inside him right now, which is plenty. "It can't be me. I told you why."

"One last time then?" Cas says. "If this is all I can have, I want something to remember."  

"You have last night to remember."  

"Yes. But I didn’t know last night. I want to kiss you knowing it will be the last time, Dean."  

There it is again, the furious pounding of Dean’s heart. Just thinking about kissing Cas again makes his lips itch, and the way Cas phrased that sentence only serves to intensify the sensation. One last time... if this is what it takes for Cas to get Dean out of his system, why not? It'll be like a goodbye: final, instead of this open end they've got going on now. Dean is trying to think of all the possible consequences a last kiss might entail, but finds that the pros outweigh the cons. So he gives in, not only to Cas, but also to himself. One last time. Because if he stops lying to himself for a second, he realizes that Cas is not the only one who's got to get a special someone out of his system. 

“Okay,” Dean says.

There’s a tiny smile twitching around Cas’ full lips. Cas might be oblivious to it, but the sight makes Dean want to bundle him up in his arms and carry him straight back to the motel room to discover all the words that make him smile like that.

Before he has the chance to, Sam returns to their table. “Are we all set?”

“Yup.” Dean says, getting to his feet. Cas is following suit, standing so close to Dean that he can feel his body warmth creeping through his clothes. Dean remembers that warmth from last night, too. What he also remembers is how spectacular it tasted in his mouth and felt on his skin. Must be an angel thing, the high body temperature.

“Let’s head out then.” Sam turns on his heel and waves them along. “There’s a haunted house waiting for us.”


	3. If It Ain't Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating a tiiiny bit late, I'm sorry. Enjoy!

They are weaponing up for the job when Cas appears out of thin air, right behind Dean, who’s washing his hands by the tiny bathroom sink. Cas is so close that Dean feels his breath on that sensitive spot just below his ear whenever he exhales.

“Dean.”

“What’s up? You ready to go?” Dean asks.

He’s proud his voice isn’t shaking with Cas being so close. Though it’s probably too early to say he’s making progress, what with the return of the interested twitching downstairs.

“Not quite.”

That gets Dean’s attention. He turns around to face Cas, who looks just like always. Dress shirt unbuttoned at the top, tie hanging loose around his neck, trench coat slightly rumpled. He’s not bleeding or showing any other signs of injury, which, to be fair, is a justified concern. Wouldn’t be the first time Cas shows up all roughed up and bloody from whatever he does when he’s not with them.

“You need anythin’?” Dean asks.

“Yes. I need to kiss you,” Cas says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Thankfully, Dean’s gotten better at handling Cas’ innocent bluntness. The thing is, _better_ is a far cry from _good_ , which is exactly why his heart’s still missing a beat.

“Yeah…” he says. “What else is new?”

“Nothing,” Cas says, as if Dean hadn’t meant that as a purely rhetorical question. And then, Cas is suddenly leaning in, blue eyes fixed on Dean’s lips. Goddammit, he’s gonna …

“Cas.” It’s quiet and strained. Their lips are not even an inch apart, Cas’ breath tasting like an aphrodisiac that’s doing a fine job with luring Dean in. Dean’s hands are on Cas’ shoulders, stopping him from closing that last bit of distance. “Not now.”

Cas makes no move to back away, but at least he’s not trying to kiss Dean again, which is a good sign. Though then, his gaze shifts from Dean’s mouth to his eyes, and they just lock. Dean’s captured in that unblinking, bottomless blue, and in that moment, it feels so strangely right to be.

“Cas,” he whispers. “ _Cas_.”

“Dean,” Cas whispers back. It’s with the same urgency, the same longing, and suddenly Dean can’t remember why he’s trying so hard to resist. Cas is so close that his lips brush Dean’s _just so_ when he speaks, every gentle exhale kissing Dean’s mouth. It’s torture. Sweet, sweet torture.

Dean’s always thought he’s a strong man. A _very_ strong man. Damn, he’s been to hell and back and he survived it. And yet now, it turns out he’s not strong enough to resist Cas, even when he should. The worst thing might just be that he doesn’t even want to.

His hands slip to Cas’ waist and then he’s grabbing his ass, his plump cheeks a beautiful weight in his palms, and lifts him up on the bathroom counter as if he’s not 6 feet and 170 pounds of solid angel. Cas makes a soft noise of surprise when his bottom meets the cool marble. Dean’s hands are on his thighs, spreading them wide to make room for him to step in between.

Forehead to forehead, they stay like this, Cas waiting while Dean’s battling himself. The fight is obvious on his features, in the way his eyebrows are drawn and his lips are pressed together, almost as if that’s enough to hold him back from kissing Cas like he _wants_ to kiss him.

“We can’t,” Dean whispers, eyes fluttering shut, because he has no idea how he’s supposed to look into these damn gorgeous eyes and not kiss the pair of lips that go with them.

“That’s what you’re saying, and yet we keep finding ourselves in this position,” Cas says quietly.

Cas would just have to tilt his head to get what he wants. But he doesn’t, and Dean doesn’t know if he should thank him for that or if he should be mad because Cas is polite enough to not make a decision that’s supposed to be Dean’s. It’s as if deep down, he knows it’s Dean who has to make that call, who has to _want_ it. And Cas respects that, which is another reason to go on Dean’s list of “why kissing Cas is the best fucking idea you ever had”.

“Dean, that last time we talked about … can we make it now?”

Cas is trembling in Dean’s arms, muscles strung tight with anticipation. Dean knows what that’s like—dammit, it’s the same for him. He’s been confronted with temptation all his life, left and right, but this? This is an entirely new facet of it. Cas is right. They’ve agreed on one last time, one last kiss, so why not do it now? The answer is as easy as it’s elusive—because after they share that kiss, that’s it. Whatever this thing between them is, it’s over, because that’s the way it has to be. It’s what Dean wants. Right?

“Yeah,” Dean breathes against Cas’ lips. He can already taste him on his tongue and that’s making him giddier than any high he’s ever experienced. Giddier than going 130 mph in the Impala. “Let’s make it now.”

Dean’s arms tighten around Cas, maybe it’s a little too hard, but it’s not like he’s able to physically hurt Cas anyway, so he just gives in. To need, to temptation, to craving, to all of it, because this is Cas and as it turns out, Cas is too damn irresistible for any semblance of restraint. Cas is clawing at Dean’s shirt, insistent enough to leave marks on Dean’s skin underneath. Dean can feel it, and fuck, he just wants to take the damn thing off to feel Cas’ bare hands on his just as bare skin. Just kissing Cas is apparently never enough, because Dean wants more than that; he wants every inch of himself on every inch of Cas, wants him bare at his fingertips. It should be a hint. No, scratch that, in fact it should be a ginormous neon sign advertising how much of a fucking red flag it is that Dean wants more than kissing from Cas. Much more. He’s lucky though, because all he gets instead is a soft brush of lips, a brief tip of tongues, and then there’s a loud knock on the door slicing neatly through the mood.

“Dean, are you ready? We gotta go.”

Dean’s eyes are still closed when he sighs. Maybe Sam’s interruption is another sign; a sign that this is just not supposed to happen between them. Dean takes a step back, only to be pulled right back in between Cas’ spread thighs by two strong hands on his hips. He tries not to linger on the way Cas’ thumbs press into his hip bones, which is a little too firm and entirely too wonderful.

“What?” he smirks, eyebrow cocked in a dare to make Cas say it. To make him say how much he wants this, how much he needs Dean, right now.

The expression on Cas’ face is worth a damn mint. It looks like petulance with a dash of disappointment, and that alone makes Dean want to kiss the hell out of him.

“You know what,” he says. He’s sulking. Cas is actually sulking because his shot at kissing Dean has been ruined and that’s, well, cute. How’s it even possible for someone to be this goddamn cute? Someone who doesn’t even understand the concept of how to _be_ cute?

Dean laughs and flicks Cas’ nose. Cas pulls back in astonishment, one hand coming up to touch the pink spot that flick has left. Dean can’t help himself. He takes Cas’ hand in his and leans in to brush his lips over the tip of his nose. “Later.”

Dean looks down to where Cas’ slim fingers are wrapped around his wrist; not squeezing, just holding on. When Dean’s eyes land on Cas, Cas licks his lips and Dean really wishes he wouldn’t, because now, _later_ can’t come fast enough.

“Is this an oath?” Cas asks.

Dean rolls his eyes, because seriously, an oath? Yeah, sure. It’s a bloody oath. Dean is distracted by the wet shimmer on Cas’ lips, more than he should be considering Sam’s still hovering on the other side of the door. So what if he’s taking too long to answer because Cas’ lips are way too shapely for a man and that kinda makes them impossible not to ogle? When he does answer though, his reply is what Cas has asked for. Or close enough, at least.

“We say promise down here, dork. And yes, it’s a promise.”

 

* * *

 

There are things Dean’s gotten used to by having done them what feels like a million times in the course of his life. There’s the meticulous inspection of their arsenal of weapons, for example. Weapons are implements used on a daily basis, so making sure they work is literally a matter of life and death. Another thing is keeping Baby in perfect condition, making sure she’s filled up and ready to go. And then there’s handling pain. It doesn’t matter how many times it happens, and it happens a lot, Dean will never get used to being thrown not into, but through a wall. The kind that smashes the entire construction and has Dean bathing in debris. It’s no fun to find pieces of plaster and concrete in his underwear once he finally gets to take a shower after the job. That’s exactly what he’s thinking about as he crashes through the wall of the haunted house they are supposed to clean and yes, based on that little fact, one could say the job isn’t going too great. Sam was right. This witch really is a bitch to bring down. Dean tries to get back up to his feet, but the sharp pain buzzing through him from top to bottom kinda makes that impossible, so he just stays down. For now. There’s blood trickling into his ear from what must be a cut on his cheek, but he can’t even lift an arm to wipe it away. Maybe he’s getting old. Once upon a time, he could take being smashed into solid concrete without much of a problem. It seems like those times have changed, because now, he can’t even fucking move. All he can do is lie there and what? Wait for his own personal knight in shining armor to come and save his ass? Too bad someone like that apparently exists, and he looks like Cas.

“Dean,” Cas is by his side, eyebrows drawn as he does a perfunctory check of Dean’s injuries. “Can you stand?”

Dean’s vision is blurry. All he can see is a faint, Cas-like silhouette, but really, it could be anyone. In times like these, it’s probably a good thing Dean can feel Cas from a mile away. He tries on a weak smile that feels all messed up on his lips, but hey—points for trying, right? All he can think is how much he’d prefer being anywhere but here. At the motel room, enjoying a long, hot shower to get rid of the grime and blood that comes with a rough job. Or maybe back under the sheets with Cas, kissing him breathless and listening to his delicious moans and quiet pleas of “don’t stop, Dean”, which are still echoing in Dean’s ears. God, yes. That’s what he’d _really_ like right now.

“Maybe,” he says, his voice sounding scratchy and not at all what it normally sounds like. “Help me up?”

Within a heartbeat, Cas’ arms are around Dean’s middle to lift him up from the broken floorboards. Dean is grateful. Underneath this simmering, all-consuming need for Cas, he’s still his friend. One of his best friends, and friends pull friends from the shattered wall you’ve just involuntarily taken down by using your body as a wrecking ball.

“Thanks,” Dean says. The attack has left him weak, but he’s not too weak to attempt a smile for Cas. Apparently, it’s working too, because Cas smiles one of his tentative smiles right back at him. Dean tries to ignore the pleasant curl of his toes inside his shoes because of it.

“Get away from him.” It’s an inhuman snarl, and the second it’s been spoken, Dean knows the witch is back for him. There’s a lick of worry for what she might do to Cas, which is stupid and utterly uncalled for. Cas is the all but indestructible angel here, Dean had better watch out for his own ass.

Dean’s just about to give the bitch shit for treating him like a damn football, when there’s a sudden burst of blazing light and Cas’ scream of pain.

“Cas!” Dean reaches for Cas, who’d just been pressed to his side, holding him upright, but finds only emptiness. Cas is gone, hauled straight to god knows where the angel banishing sigil decided to take him.

“You bitch,” Dean growls. She has the audacity to smile at him, slow and toxic, as she takes her hand from the sigil made of blood. Where she’s gotten the blood is anybody’s guess, considering she’s a damn ghost and shouldn’t hold any blood in this ghostly form of hers. She better not have used Sam for it, or Dean’s gonna be _really_ pissed.

“Dean!” Sam rounds the corner, sees the witch and gives her a load of salt from his shotgun. It’ll only stall her for a couple seconds, a few minutes tops, if they are lucky.

“Oh fuck, what happened to you?” Sam asks. He’s at Dean’s side now, one arm wrapping around his middle to help him stand. Just like Cas has done a few short seconds ago, and yet the effect it has on Dean couldn’t be more different. Because while Sam feels like familiarity and shelter and home, Cas feels like the taste of _more_ and _mine_ Dean’s always wanted.

“She’s banished Cas,” Dean says, “Damn Sammy, I don’t know how—”

He’s cut off mid-sentence when another hit of raw energy hits him squarely in the chest and wrenches him off his feet, and then he’s flying again. Another wall catches him and when he goes down this time, it’s darkness that pulls him under.

 

* * *

 

Dean wakes to soft murmurs and the wail of a siren somewhere close by. His first thought is that Sam had better not called an ambulance. There are too many people at the hospital asking questions; too much attention. It takes Herculean effort, but Dean manages to blink his eyes open. Well, one eye, but that’s good enough for now. He’s relieved to recognize the grayish ceiling of the motel room.

“Dean?” It’s Sam, sitting on the bed and appraising him with a worried look. “How are you feeling? You took a pretty rough hit back there.”

The first sound that makes it out of Dean’s dry throat is a gurgle. Sam is quick to hand him a bottle of water and Dean manages to get a couple deep swigs before his stomach protests in pain.

“You don’t say,” Dean replies, trying to crack a smile. “What happened? Where's Cas?”

“Well,” Sam says, running a hand through his hair. “Good news is, I got the witch. It wasn’t easy, but she’s done for. Bad news is, I … I haven’t been able to reach Cas yet.”

The pain that squeezes Dean’s chest now has nothing to do with his injuries. Cas could be anywhere. Dammit, he could be _hurt_.

Dean tries to sit up, but only makes it to one elbow before he falls back against the headboard with a groan. He stays in this weird, not-quite-sitting position and looks at Sam. “We gotta find him,” he says urgently. “Right now.”

“Hey, calm down,” Sam reaches out to pat his shoulder. It gives Dean little comfort. “We will, okay? We’ll find him. But you need to rest up first. You can’t go anywhere like this, much less save someone.”

Damn hell he can’t. He’s not going to sit on his hands while Cas could be bleeding to death somewhere. Dean’s brain has obviously been mushed up good during the fight, because why else would he think about that kiss he’s promised Cas and how much he wants to keep that promise? It sucks to think about that he might not get another chance to. Damn, he should’ve kissed him before they left for the job, in the bathroom while he was having a nice handful of Cas’ ass and his gorgeous blue eyes to lose himself in.

Dean huffs again while doing it, but he manages to get himself in a proper sitting position. Every bone inside his body feels twisted, but he ignores it. All he can think about right now is Cas.

What happens next happens incredibly fast. One moment, Dean feels Cas’ presence, the familiar white-hot buzz in his blood, and in the next, the door to their motel room flies open and crashes against the wall behind it. Dean knows before he sees; knows that it’s Cas and he shoots a quick prayer of thanks to a God he doesn’t believe in for letting Cas be alive and—relatively—well.

Cas’ blue eyes scan the room wildly until they land on Dean and then he sighs, his face a picture of relief. He drops against the doorframe and slides down until he sits, his eyes fluttering shut. Sam curses and hurries over to what seems to be a passed-out Cas, hurls him up and carries him over to lay him down next to Dean. Cas looks pretty much like Dean does. There are deep gashes all over his face and his clothes are stained red.

“We’re out of med supplies,” Sam says gravely. He’s already reaching for his jacket and the car keys. “I’m going to get more. Will you be okay with him until I get back?”

Dean nods. “Yes, go. And Sam …” he looks at Cas warily. He’s breathing, but it’s unsteady and labored. “Hurry, ‘kay?”

Sam gives a curt nod, then sprints out the still-open door and slams it shut behind him. Dean listens to the howl of Baby’s engine before the noises gradually fade into the distance. Then he shifts and turns his gaze to Cas. It’s funny, what it takes to have them end up in bed together again. God, Dean wants to touch him. He wants to run the pads of his fingers over the stubble on Cas’ jaw, wants to kiss the blood off his split lip. He does neither. Instead, he reaches out and brushes his fingers through the waves of dark hair that have fallen on Cas’ forehead. They are a bit sticky with sweat and probably blood, but that does nothing to disguise how soft the strands are. Dean’s only had his fingers in Cas’ hair once before, and yet he remembers the texture, the color, the little locks that curl around the tops of his ears. Dean is lost to the task of playing with Cas’ hair when suddenly, Cas stirs and releases a long sigh. So the little angel is enjoying this, huh? Dean wraps a strand around his fingers and releases it before he repeats the process. Cas has grown still again, but Dean can see his eyes moving beneath his lids and hear his breathing stabilizing, so he quietly asks, “Cas?”

Cas moans under his breath.

“Cas?”

“Mh,” he sighs, “continue, please.”

Dean stops the hair treatment in favor of applying a light shove to Cas’ shoulder. “Hey, how long have you been awake, asshat?”

Cas’ eyes blink open and when they settle on Dean, there’s a slow, almost dopey smile tugging at Cas’ lips. Dean gulps. He can’t remember the last time someone’s been this overtly happy to see him.

“Dean,” Cas breathes, smile growing fond, hazy eyes alight with rare emotion. “Dean, you … you’re alive.”

It sounds like this tiny little revelation means the world to Cas. It’s beyond touching, and it’s making the kind of warmth unfurl in Dean’s belly that’s powerful enough to numb the pain for a few moments.

“Duh,” Dean says, making a show of rolling his eyes at Cas. “By now, you should know better than to believe a witch is what it takes to bring me down.”

“Mh,” Cas hums approvingly. He shifts a little bit closer, his thigh pressing up flush against Dean’s. There are still their clothes denying skin-on-skin contact, though that’s not Dean’s biggest concern. No, his problem is the comforter and the fact that he’s under it while Cas is on top. Dean should probably question why he’s dying to have Cas in the sheets with him, but he’s too beat and too banged up to do it now. Now he just wants Cas, and he wants him as close as he can get him.

“How are you?” he asks and watches Cas’ eyelids open once again. Damn, the guy has nice lashes, with a capital N.

“Tired. I woke three hours outside of town and had to take a bus to return. Other than that, my abilities have been mostly taken away for now. But please don’t be concerned about me. I will be fine.”

Cas gazes at Dean and Dean gazes at Cas. They both look the worse for wear, but they are alive. And they are alive together.

Suddenly, Cas sits up, his knees pressing into the side of Dean’s thigh. Cas’ blue eyes are fixed on Dean’s face, and then he licks his lips. Damn, Dean thinks, he really has to tell Cas to knock it off with the lip licking. It does _things_ to Dean, things that get him to a point where he can’t predict what he’s going to do next.

“Cas, you really—”

He’s cut off by the feel of Cas’ lips on his own. It takes him a full moment to grasp that Cas is kissing him, and then another one to realize he’s not going to resist. It’s just the softest brush of lips before it’s gone again. Cas pulls away and has the decency to look sheepish. Dean’s just dazed. Stunned. He swallows past the lump in his throat and whispers, “You can’t do that.”

“I know,” Cas whispers back. And then he kisses Dean again, this time slow and reverent and so very perfect. Cas’ eyes are closed, his lips soft and slightly parted, just like Dean’s taught him. Dean sighs into Cas’ mouth, his hand coming up to cup the back of Cas’ neck, fingers burying in luscious dark hair.

“It was supposed to be my call,” Dean says, even while he’s kissing back; while he angles his head just right for his tongue to slip in between Cas’ lips and kiss the breath right out of his mouth.

“I know,” Cas half-moans against Dean’s lips, “but I ... I thought I lost you. With my powers gone, I was not able to feel you through our bond and I was ... scared.”

Cas drops his head on Dean’s shoulder, his face burying against Dean’s neck. His breath is warm and tender on Dean’s skin when he continues to speak, “I know it should have been your decision. I took this from you. I am sorry, Dean. I saw you and I couldn’t ... I couldn’t hold back. I’m sorry.”

A gentle shiver runs through Cas’ body. Dean would be a petty ass if he failed to realize how much Cas is beating himself up over this, when really, Dean has done nothing to resist either. On the contrary, he's enjoyed it. He's enjoyed it so much that he wants to pretend there’s nothing wrong or tricky or downright dangerous about kissing Cas. They both came so close to biting the dust today, again, so maybe they _can_ pretend. Just for a little while.

“Cas, hey. Look at me.”

Cas lifts his head from where it’s snuggled into Dean’s neck and gazes up at Dean, his eyes so impossibly big and so impossibly blue.

Dean sweeps his thumb over Cas’ cheek and smiles when Cas trembles in response.

“Dean ...” It’s so quiet that Dean wouldn’t have heard it at all if they weren’t so close.

“Shh,” he soothes, and then he’s the one leaning in to kiss Cas, and god, he doesn’t want to stop. Ever.

Cas is baffled when Dean pulls away, eyes going wide as Dean licks his lips to internalize each and every note of Cas' taste.

“Why?” Cas asks.

“Because I’m tired of fighting this.”


	4. Walk Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads-up: there's angst ahead!

Cas stays quiet for so long that Dean believes he’s not going to acknowledge what he’s said at all. Dean’s technically just given him the big, flashing _go_ , and yet Cas stays on his side of the bed and makes no move to change that. To say Dean’s perplexed would be an understatement. By now, he’s anticipated to have a lapful of beautiful, strong, needy angel and a warm tongue in his mouth to go with it, so why the fuck do his lips feel so unkissed? Why aren’t there hands all over him, trying to rip his clothes off his body?

“Cas?” he asks.

Cas seems to snap out of a trance when his name rolls off Dean’s tongue. His eyes are as intense as they always are, but there’s a slight tint of something else to it, something that seems awfully similar to guilt. Oh, Dean knows guilt. He’s seen it so many times, on none other than himself, and this? This is definitely it. Dean hates seeing that loathed emotion anywhere on Cas, hates recognizing it in the rigid line of his shoulders or the hard set of his jaw, but he hates it most in those beautiful eyes of his, because if it’s reached Cas’ eyes, it’s real.

Before he knows it, he’s reached out for Cas. Dean doesn’t know what he’s trying to achieve with it, maybe offer comfort for whatever just happened, maybe just touch Cas to show him nothing’s changed, he’s still there with him, he still wants him, wants him _so much_. And Cas … flinches. He shies away from Dean, from his touch.

The sting of rejection is immediate and much more than a sting; it feels much more like a goddamn wound clawing its way through Dean’s chest.

“Cas?” The name sounds like a painfully accurate reflection of what Dean’s feeling—small and hurt and confused.

“I apologize, Dean,” Cas says quietly. That’s a sorry excuse of an apology if Dean’s ever heard one, because Cas is still not making a move to stop acting weird and come closer, which is where Dean wants him; closer, so much closer. Dean curses himself internally when he finds himself craving one hell of a kiss to consider himself anywhere near appeased.

“For what?” A wobbly laugh escapes Dean that sounds borderline hysterical. “What just happened? I thought we—” he breaks off and starts again, “I thought you—you wanted _this_ ,” he says, motioning between Cas and himself.

“I do,” Cas says. “I mean, I did. But I have realized that it’s not my place to want you like this.”

Dean’s noticed how Cas has corrected himself to use past tense—he _wanted_ it, which implies he doesn’t any longer—and why does it hurt so much? It was just for fun, wasn’t it? Breaking off a little fooling around is not supposed to feel like _this_. It’s not supposed to seize Dean’s heart like a vice, and it’s surely not supposed to make tears burn behind his eyes.

“Dean, please,” Cas says, his face a picture of anguish. He probably has no idea how to explain himself, but Dean doesn’t care. Cas has been the one to start this whole damn tip-toeing around each other with his stupid desire for kissing— _Dean’s_ kissing—and now that Dean’s finally battled down the fear and the doubts and the voice inside his head telling him “this is Cas and you can’t do this with Cas”, Cas is dropping him? It makes Dean wonder if Cas has ever been honest with him about this from the start. Maybe it was just a game. An experiment. Being human for a couple days and using Dean as an unwitting test subject. Now that he thinks about it, who would have made a better candidate than him?

He recoils against the headboard, releasing a small huff of pain when the motion makes his bruised shoulder connect with the wood a little too hard.

Cas is by Dean’s side in an instant, his hand coming up to brush gently through his hair. It’s funny, really, how just this touch is something Dean was craving only a few minutes ago, while it makes him want to disappear under the sheets just to run from it now.

“Dean, are you in pain?” Cas asks. It sounds so stupidly genuine that Dean wants to laugh. Or cry. Cas’ fingers are still carding through Dean’s hair and doing a wonderful job of taking the edge off pain Dean would prefer over Cas’ too gentle, too perfect touch. He allows himself another moment to linger before he pushes Cas’ hand away and says, “Fine.”

It looks like Cas has a hard time taking his hand away, but he won’t act against Dean’s wishes. Dean knows him better than that.

“Dean, may I explain why—”

“Don’t bother,” Dean bites out. If Cas doesn’t want him, it’s fine. He doesn’t need any explanations. This is humiliating enough as it is, he can very well do without the crappy “it’s not you, it’s me” speech.

“Dean—”

“Cas, just stop,” Dean huffs. This conversation has turned real embarrassing real fast and he just wants it to be over. “Look, I get it, okay? You’ve had this body for years and it’s grown on you. You wanted the human experience, and I guess kissing and everything that—that comes after, it’s a huge part of it, so yeah, I get it. You got what you wanted and now that it's done, we move on. No big.”

The words sound so incredibly wrong, but Dean doesn’t dare to think about the _why_ and tries to focus on the _must_ instead.

“Dean, please, this is not—you are wrong,” Cas whispers. He’s obviously struggling to find the right words, but since Dean is confined to this bed and can’t exactly walk away, he might as well listen to Cas try.

Cas reaches out and applies the lightest squeeze to Dean’s shoulder, causing him to jolt and bite back a curse. Damn, he’s really messed up good. Worse off than he previously thought.

“You are hurt, Dean. Badly. This is my fault,” Cas says. “I should have protected you, healed you when I had the chance, but I was distraught over seeing you hurt and I just wanted to be with you. Clearly, I wasn't in my right mind. I have what you would call feelings for you, which extend beyond the common understanding of family or friendship. When I asked you to kiss me, I stopped fighting them. I let them happen, all of them, I even allowed them to grow and turn into something … solid. You almost died tonight, Dean, and this is the reason for it. _I_ am the reason.”

Dean gapes at him. He’s heard what Cas said, crystal clear, he just doesn’t believe it. He’s blaming himself for what’s happened to Dean tonight? Blaming this thing that’s going on between them? Yeah, no. Not gonna happen. Dean won’t let it.

“Is this some kind of excuse for wanting out?” he hears himself ask.

Cas’ eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Out? Out of what?”

“Out of whatever this is between us, Cas,” Dean says. It’s getting increasingly difficult to hold Cas’ gaze. Dean feels heat blooming in his cheeks the more he talks about this. He’s not the type of guy to talk feelings, never has been. This is putting him on the spot, and he hates it.

“No,” Cas says. “Of course not. I’m honest with you, Dean. I want to be there when you need me. I want to protect you. I have failed you today, because I kept thinking about you … you and me, together. I kept thinking about kissing you and …”

He trails off when he meets Dean’s eyes and the fire lighting them up from the inside. Cas probably doesn’t get it, but what he’s just said is the closest equivalent to dirty talk Dean’s gonna get from Cas, and damn, he’d be lying his ass off if he said he’s not hopelessly turned on by it. Dean isn’t sure how or when it happened, but suddenly he finds himself closer to Cas than he’s been a heartbeat ago, leaning in and watching how the pink tip of Cas’ tongue dips out to lick his bottom lip. It takes everything he has not to cup the back of Cas’ neck and bring him in for a kiss so messy Cas forgets all about his reasons to stop kissing Dean. Which is stupid and reckless and wrong, because from the start, they were never meant to do this, to _be_ this, and Dean knows he has to let it go. This is his chance to bury what’s going on between them and return to being the odd kind of friends they have always been. So why’s he about to kiss Cas? Why does he want to kiss him so bad that he can barely tell right from wrong?

Dean clears his throat. “You know ... you asked me to promise you one last kiss and I did. I hate being the guy who doesn’t keep his word.”

Why did he say that? And why doesn’t he want to take it back, even if he had the chance to?

Cas’ eyes are still fixed on Dean’s mouth, and Dean decides to test him. He licks his lips—slowly, deliberately—and relishes the sense of satisfaction when he watches Cas’ eyes widen in response; pupils blown wide with unmistakable desire. That’s when Dean calls bullshit. Cas wants this. He _still_ wants it, and the fact that he’s about to end it here because he wants to keep Dean safe doesn’t change a thing about that. Dean needs it, just as much. He needs that last kiss, that promise fulfilled. It’s hanging there over his head like a cloud, fogging his mind until he gets rid of it.

Cas is already leaning in. Dean’s breath hitches in his throat, but he’s too far gone on the prospect of kissing Cas again to give a shit.

“Okay,” Cas whispers, warm breath kissing Dean’s lips like a foretaste.

“Okay,” Dean echoes. Leaning in makes his sore body scream, but it doesn’t matter. Not when Cas’ lips are an inch from his and he’s about to taste heaven again.

Their foreheads touch first and Dean allows his eyes to flutter closed while he reaches up to bury his fingers in Cas’ hair. Every breath he takes is deep, saturated with Cas’ scent, and yet it’s not deep enough. When he brings Cas in for the kiss, it’s a perfect reflection of how he feels—hungry, impatient, so goddamn needy. Their teeth clack softly and Dean moans into Cas’ mouth, his tongue opening up Cas’ lips a bit too harsh, but Cas is making these irresistible little breathy sounds again, so Dean figures he likes it a little rough. Which is just what he needs right now, because for the life of him, he can’t go slow. Cas pushes Dean back against the headboard with his mouth, his hands bracing on the mattress to either side of Dean’s body, caging him in between. Dean licks Cas’ bottom lip before he sucks on it, drawing a groan from Cas that makes his lips vibrate against Dean's. Cas digs his finger in Dean’s shirt, kneading the material as if he’s trying to hold back from touching Dean any more than this. For once, Dean doesn’t care about control, doesn’t care about being righteous. This kiss feels so much like a beginning, even when they both know it’s goodbye. Dean’s fingers close around Cas’ wrist and then he’s pushing their joined hands below his shirt, guiding Cas up to his chest.

“Dean,” Cas breathes. It sounds like a plea, though Dean is not sure what Cas is pleading for. Is it too much? Not enough? When Dean opens his eyes to find out, Cas is obviously fighting his desire to head in the direction Dean’s pushing him to go. His eyebrows are drawn, and there’s this little wrinkle of intense concentration marring the skin between them. Dean wants to smooth it out with his fingertips, tell Cas it’s okay. It’s selfish to drag Cas down along with him, just because Dean's too human to resist temptation. But he wants Cas to be human, too. He wants Cas to be human with him.

Dean splays their still-joined hands on his chest and leads Cas to his left pec, where his heart’s pounding so hard that Dean’s certain Cas can feel it against his palm. He moans when Cas’ fingers brush his nipple. Cas does, too.

“Cas, please,” Dean hears himself beg. “Touch me.”

Dean’s not playing fair. He knows Cas won’t deny him, can’t deny him, and even while he knows it, Dean can’t find it in himself to stop wanting what he’s not supposed to want.

Dean recognizes the exact moment Cas gives in. His whole body relaxes against Dean, his lips becoming soft and pliant with just a hint of impatience. The pads of his fingers circle Dean’s nipple without touching it, staying just a little off where Dean wants them.

“Cas,” he breathes. It’ supposed to be a warning, but it sounds like a prayer.

Cas smiles against Dean’s lips. “I’m new to this, Dean. You need to tell me exactly what you want me to do.”

Oh hell is he new. Cas knows what he’s doing, how much he’s riling Dean up with his fake innocuous teasing and how much needier he gets with every almost touch of his. It’s making Dean lose his freakin’ mind, and he loves every second of it. Turns out that’s another thing Cas is a natural at: driving a man wild with desire. All right, two can play at this game.

“Touch my nipple,” Dean commands. “Roll it between your fingers.”

Cas bravado visibly falters when he realizes Dean’s up for the game. His Adam’s apple bobs and then he’s doing exactly what Dean’s told him to do, and it’s fucking perfection. Cas knows how much pressure to apply to get Dean groaning and writhing, as if he’s familiar with every inch of his body.

“Am I doing this right, Dean?” Cas asks, half-teasing, half-serious. Dean means to answer, but Cas is trailing featherlight kisses across his jawline, all the way to his earlobe and the soft spot below it, and Dean can’t remember what words are or how to form them. He’s been reduced to a barrel of sensation and desire, and Cas is filling him up with every touch, every kiss, every whispered “Dean” that leaves his gorgeous lips.

Cas’ fingers leave Dean’s chest to wander down to his navel. Dean cups Cas’ face with both hands and just takes in the sight of him, from the hair that’s wild from Dean’s fingers, over the unique shade of blue of his eyes to his wet mouth and the dark scruff on his jaw. When he looks at Cas like this, he’s not sure how he’s supposed to stop wanting to kiss him. How he’s supposed to stop _wanting_ him.

Dean kisses Cas again, and this time, the kiss is different. Reverent, worshipping. Their tongues slide together with a tenderness that’s too sensual, their lips lingering a little too long. When they pull apart, Dean knows it’s over, and Cas knows it too. They are back to what they were, Dean can feel it. They are friends. Family. The term doesn’t sit well with Dean, but he supposes he just has to get used to it after all the non-family things he’s been feeling for Cas lately.

“Are you alright?” Cas asks. He’s put distance between them, and he doesn’t touch Dean again.

“Peachy,” Dean says. It’s nowhere near as confident as he meant for it to come out. He supposes being his usual cheeky self around Cas is something he has to get reacquainted with as well. Which makes him wonder how many things really do have changed between them; things he’s thought would never change. Maybe it’s been foolish to think crossing the line wouldn’t do that.

“You don’t seem … peachy,” Cas rightly presumes.  

Suddenly, it’s like a switch inside Dean’s flipped and he feels the urge to get out of here. To run. He doesn’t want to have this conversation anymore, doesn’t want to see the concern in Cas’ eyes. What he really doesn’t want is to say goodbye, which downright frightens him. He’s not supposed to feel this way. This arrangement came with a time limit from the start, so why does he feel like he’s losing something he’s supposed to hold onto at every cost? Why does he feel overwhelmed with this complex construct of emotions when this was supposed to be easy? He doesn't know how to deal with this, doesn't want to deal with it. All he knows is that he's never felt like this—not for Cassie, not for Lisa, not for _anyone_ —and it's scaring the shit out of him. He just wants out, even if that makes him a coward. So Dean does what he always does when he’s forced into a corner: he snaps.  

“You know what, Cas?” he spits. “Just stop it. Stop asking me if I’m okay, stop telling me that I’m not, and for Christ’s sake, stop looking at me like that. Just … go. I … I can’t stand being close to you right now.”  

Cas isn’t exactly great with feelings. Usually, his face is a stoic mask, so stoic Cas is what Dean’s used to. Dean has to admit seeing genuine, raw pain on Cas’ face throws him for a loop. He’d have expected anything, even Cas disappearing on him without another word, but not this look. This look, all glossy eyes and trembling bottom lip, is a first. Dean has secretly enjoyed watching Cas become a little bit more human with every day he spends on earth, from the subtle flickers of emotion all the way to his ability to pick up on jokes and make them himself, but the look Cas is giving Dean right now is something Dean could’ve happily done without. It kills him to see Cas so hurt, and even more that he’s responsible for it. Dean wishes he could take it all back, wishes he was strong enough to end this like the unattached grown-up he wants to be. Turns out that’s not what he is. Cas deserves so much better, but Dean can’t let him down easy. If he’s not doing this the hard way, he’ll never be able to walk away from Cas and everything they could have been.

“Dean ...” Cas says. It’s a whisper, quiet and broken, and for a moment, Dean just wants to damn it all to hell and kiss the pain right out of Cas’ voice. That is until he remembers he can’t do that. He has to go through with it, even more now that he realizes his resolve is already hanging by a thread.

“Please,” Dean says, and now he sounds like Cas. Defeated. Vulnerable. _Hurt_. “Just go.”

Dean doesn’t dare to look at Cas; doesn’t dare to see the pain he’s painted on Cas’ features. He knows he’s not playing fair. Theirs was a trial, nothing more. Dean doesn’t have the right to push Cas away for being the responsible one out of the two of them and ending it when Dean’s too selfish and too weak to do it himself, because he should be the one. Not Cas. Dean should know better. He thought he did, until _this_ happened and he’s gotten to a point where he doesn’t want to let go. Where he wants to be with Cas, even if he doesn’t know what that means.

“Dean, please …” Cas whispers. “Don’t do this.”

He reaches out for Dean and takes his hand in his, their fingers twining. God, Dean didn’t expect that. Just this small touch, this tiny little act of wanting to be close, almost does him in. Cas’ hand is warm and tight and so perfect in his own. It’s a painful reminder of how much he doesn’t want to let this go, and how much he has to despite of it.

Against all reason, Dean lifts his eyes to meet Cas’ and no punch he’s ever received hurts as much as this. For once, Cas doesn’t suck at expressing his emotions, because it’s all there. The pain, the hurt, the confusion. Everything.

All Dean wants to do is pull Cas in for a hug so tight he forgets what it means to hurt. What he does instead is lock away his heart and pull his hand from Cas’. It’s among the hardest things he’s ever done.

“I can’t do this right now.”

“Dean,” Cas is pleading now, and Dean just wishes he was in the condition to get up and walk away, just so Cas doesn’t have to be the one to go. “I … I’m sorry if I upset you. That was never my intention. I should have never asked you to kiss me. It was I who started all of this and now you’re angry because of me. I’m sorry, just … please. Don’t send me away. I can’t bear being away from you, not now. Not after what has happened. I want to know we’re okay. Please.”

Dean closes his eyes and tries to swallow past the lump in his throat. The lump’s what the unshed tears he’s trying so hard to hold back have caused. He doesn’t want to cry. Not in front of Cas, and not when they are having this conversation. He doesn’t trust his voice enough to speak, so he just shakes his head and hopes Cas gets the message. But because he’s Cas, he doesn’t read between the lines.

“Look at me.”

Dean shakes his head again.

“Look at me,” Cas repeats, and Dean figures that’s what he owes Cas. Looking at him while he breaks up with something that technically can’t be broken up with, because it’s never been there to begin with.

Dean swallows again before he looks at Cas. A single tear drips from those beautiful blue eyes and Dean wishes he had the right to reach out and wipe it away. Or better yet, _kiss_ it away.

“If this is what you want, I'm going to leave,” Cas says, his voice hollow. “Just ... look into my eyes and tell me you want me to, because I need to believe it. And right now, I don't.”

Dean feels like he’s at a crossroads. It’s his turn to pick a direction; his decision. So he does what he does best—he’s being righteous.

“I want you to,” he says, holding Cas' gaze. His voice breaks on the last word, and his heart along with it.

There’s the sound of flapping wings, and Cas is gone. He’s left, just like Dean has asked him to. Only when the beautifully familiar sound of Cas’ wings dies down to a faint echo in Dean’s ears, does he allow his tears to fall.


	5. No One Like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Against all reason, Dean has hoped Cas isn’t strong enough to stay away.  
> He’s still hoping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that was a long break - I'm sorry! Real life has thoroughly messed with my plan to stick to a regular updating schedule. I hope you enjoy this chapter despite the wait! Thanks for sticking with me, you guys are awesome :)  
> PS: The angst is not over yet, but we're getting there!

Dean’s already awake when the old-fashioned alarm clock that came with the motel room for god knows what reason starts its tinny song. He reaches over in the dim light to hit the top, and then the room is back to silence. It’s barely seven a.m., but Dean’s been awake for hours. He can’t sleep for shit these days. He’s never been a great sleeper to begin with, only ever snagging the necessary five to six hours when they’re on the road, but since Cas … well, since Cas, Dean just cannot sleep, period. 

It’s been three weeks. Three weeks, four days and twelve hours since Cas left, and Dean knows because after week one, he’s started to keep count. Cas hasn’t been back, not once. Not to say hello or check in on Sam and him, not to back them up on hunts, not even to just be with Dean. Dean knows how selfish he is to even consider the notion. He’s the one who’s chased Cas away, he has no right to expect him to come back. But god, he’s hoped. Against all reason, Dean has hoped Cas isn’t strong enough to stay away. 

He’s still hoping. 

Hoping that he wakes to Cas being in the room with him, to feeling their bond crackle between them in the way Dean’s learned to take for granted. To hearing the sound of Cas’ wings and feeling the ripples of air they send across his skin. 

For the first two weeks, Dean’s fought tooth and nail against what he now knows is a certainty: he misses Cas. He misses being close to him, not just when he’s kissing him or holding him in his arms, but the spiritual connection that’s so uniquely theirs. Having Cas around has given him a sense of comfort, of belonging and recognition he never knew he needed until it was gone. This is not the first time Dean’s picking up the pieces of a mess he has created, but somehow, it feels like no amount of picking up is able to fix this mess. Not truly, anyway. 

Dean lies there in yet another motel room, complete with saggy mattress and threadbare blankets, staring up at the ceiling as the morning gradually floods the room with daylight. For the millionth time, he wonders what Cas is doing, where he is. If he’s okay. Aside from all the physical things they’ve shared, Cas is still one of his best friends, which means Dean worries about him. And at this point, he’s worried sick. 

Dean closes his eyes and folds his hands on his stomach. Even though he’s prayed like this a million times now, he’ll never get over how silly he feels doing it. 

Cas. He reaches out with his mind, trying to catch a tendril of the familiar, white-hot energy between his fingertips. Just like the first dozen times he’s done this since Cas left, there’s none. Nothing. Just dark emptiness. It’s as if Cas is truly gone, and just like the first dozen times Dean’s done this, he can’t help filling the emptiness with fear. It’s fear that has him begging, _Cas, please answer me. I need to know you’re okay_ and fear that has him saying, _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, just please … come back. I need you, Cas._

There’s nothing but silence. Wherever Cas is, he’s far from where Dean can reach him. Dean opens his eyes to the faded beige ceiling and feels a single teardrop slip from the corner of his eye. It seeps into the pillow before he can wipe it away, but Dean finds that for the first time, he doesn’t want to erase the traces of his misery. Goddamn, he’s fucked up. He’s played with fire, and now he’s counting the cost, because he’s not only burned himself, but Cas, too. Cas has been with Dean since he’d brought him back from Hell, and Dean’s gotten so used to it that Cas’ absence feels like a physical wound that’s refusing to scar over. This is the first time they are completely cut off each other, and Dean knows they only are because Cas wants it that way. Dean’s been an ass with Cas before, and still, he’d never left him. Not like this. No matter how bad their fights were, what they said to each other, even when they raised their fists against each other, Dean could always feel the bond—feel _Cas_ —at the back of his mind. He only had to reach out for it to know Cas was there. But now, Dean’s all alone in his own head. How many times has he wished for some alone time ever since Cas’ rescuing him had formed the bond between them? Now all the alone time in the world is his and he’s never felt lonelier. Cas has dropped off the face of the earth and Dean feels so many things–guilty, sad, numb. Most of all, he’s scared. He’s scared he’s broken something he can never mend, and this fear pumping through his veins—it’s choking him. 

Dean turns over and closes his eyes. This is something he’s been doing for a couple days now, just close his eyes and think about Cas. Not as in praying to him if he’s desperate enough. It’s just thinking about him; about how it felt to kiss him, to feel him, with so much more than just his hands or his body. Being with Cas was different than anything he’s ever known, and maybe that’s what he couldn’t deal with when it came down to it. If Cas was here right now, what would he tell him? Would he tell him to stay? Dean has seen so much, lived through so much. He’s broken. He’s not worthy of someone as pure as Cas, so maybe it’s better like this. Right now, they are hurting, but Dean knows from experience that even the worst kind of pain dulls with time. 

“Dean?” comes Sam’s voice from the bed next to his, voice still addled with sleep. 

“Yeah, I’m up.” 

“You okay?” Sam asks quietly. 

He sits up in bed and looks over. He’s way too perceptive not to know that Dean is far from okay. So far, he hasn’t asked what’s happened, but since Cas has been gone for weeks and Dean’s more aloof than usual, it’s pretty obvious they must’ve had some kind of fallout. 

Dean doesn’t move a muscle. He also doesn’t meet Sam’s eyes when he replies, “Yeah, I’m okay.” 

Sam sighs. “Dean …” 

“Don’t.” 

“How long do we _not_ talk about this?” Sam asks. He’s exasperated, which doesn’t exactly come as a surprise. Dean knew it would only be a matter of time until they’d get to this point. “It’s been weeks, Dean.” 

“I know, okay? He’ll be back. Eventually.” 

“I’m not asking about Cas,” Sam continues, “I’m asking about you. Dean … what the hell happened? I’ve never seen you like this before, and honestly? It’s starting to scare me.” 

Great, so it’s not only Cas Dean’s upsetting with his behavior, but now Sam, too. Damn, he really has to get his shit together. The last thing he feels like is getting up, so that’s exactly what he does. Moving has gotten a lot easier now that his injuries have pretty much healed up. He’d have saved himself the downtime if Cas had healed him, but Dean would have never asked for it and frankly, he’s glad Cas didn’t do it anyway. There’s enough crap on his conscience as it is, he doesn’t need another instance of taking from Cas what he doesn’t deserve. Especially since Cas would never say no to him. 

Dean puts his bare feet on the floor and rubs his neck in a nervous gesture. He sucks at talking feelings and all that shit, how is he supposed to explain that he’s gotten physical with Cas for what was meant to be a trial run, and now they’ve crashed and burned because it turned out to be so much more than that? They’ve been naive, but Dean blames himself for that, because Cas is Cas and he doesn’t know the first thing about human relationships that surpass the level of friendship or family. Dean’s the one who fucked up, and now he’s atoning for his sins—Cas is gone and status quo says he won’t come back. 

“Sammy, look,” Dean starts. “I messed up. With Cas. And he’s pissed, so I’m not sure when he’ll be back. Or … _if_ he’ll be back,” he adds quietly. 

It’s just words, and yet saying them out loud makes them feel so much more real than all the times Dean repeats them in his head, over and over again, trying to get them to sink in. But now that they are out in the open, they have the power to hurt, and hurt, they do. So much that it takes Dean everything he has not to let it show. 

Sam waits for Dean to continue, to spill the details, but Dean stays silent. It’s not as if he has a choice. Right now, he doesn’t trust his voice, so shutting up is his only option. 

“I know you don’t want to hear this, much less talk about it, but you’re not yourself, Dean.” _Not without him._ Sam doesn’t voice it. He doesn’t have to. They both know what it is he didn’t say. “I don’t know what happened between you guys, but is this what you want? Because if it’s not, you should find a way to fix it. For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure it’s not what Cas wants.” 

“Yeah, it is,” Dean says to the floor. What Dean really wants to do is believe Sam when he says Cas wouldn’t want them broken up and away from each other. But what he knows is that he’s prayed to Cas—every night since he left—and that Cas hasn’t replied to a single one of his prayers. They’d gone from simple _Are you there’s_ to the full on _I need you’s_ , but none of it had made a difference. At this point it’s obvious Cas doesn’t want to listen. Finding the right words after everything that’s happened would be beyond difficult—especially since it’s safe to say Dean never had to lead a conversation like _this_ and he sucks at talking feelings anyway—but it’s this silence that’s really killing him. 

“No, it’s not.” Sam sounds so sure that Dean believes him, even if it’s only for a split second. “Dean, Cas has gone to Hell to save you. He’s given a part of his most precious possession, his grace, for it. He’s rebelled against Heaven—the only home he’s ever known—for you. Trust me, being away from you is the last thing he wants.” 

“I don’t know …” 

“ _I_ know,” Sam says without hesitation. “What’s up with you, Dean? Don’t drop it before giving it a chance.” 

A chance? Is that what Dean should have done, given them a chance? He’s been freaked out about how fast they were moving, about how incredibly right it felt in spite of it. As if there was a goal they were always meant to reach and now that they were on for the ride together, there was no stopping the inevitable. And that’s exactly what’s made Dean run in the opposite direction. Feelings have power if you grant them power, which is exactly why Dean doesn’t talk about them. Why would anyone want to talk about their feelings if they don’t have to? Problem is, for the first time in his damn life, he feels like he has to. So many people have told him keeping it all in is eventually going to eat him from the inside. Realizing how right they were is a bitter pill to swallow. 

“I’ll try to reach him, okay? And that’s all I’m going to say on the topic.” Dean doesn’t tell Sam that reaching Cas is what he’s been attempting to do for nearly three weeks now. Or that Cas has never replied. Or that the space inside him that’s always been filled with Cas is now empty. 

Sam shrugs, but doesn’t get up yet. That’s either because he’s not in the mood to—which would be one hundred percent justified since it’s 7 fuckin’ o’clock. Or alternatively, he’s not done talking yet. Dean guesses it’s the latter. 

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. You made a mistake, so fix it. You're good at that, remember?” He finally gives Dean a genuine grin, and like that, relationship talk is over. 

 

Around late morning, they agree that they are stuck on their case. Nothing they know adds up, and there’s no pattern they can trace. Lunch—which consists of some weird meat concoction the street vendor around the corner has talked them into—leaves both of them (yes, even Dean, who can basically eat anything as long as it contains meat) with an upset stomach, and since Dean’s exhausted from another night of tossing and turning anyway, they decide to head back to the motel for now and get some rest before venturing out for more information on the John Doe they’re hunting. 

It takes exactly two minutes after Dean’s told Sam he’d just chill on the sofa for a bit before he’s out like a light. Finally getting some sleep should feel positively rejuvenating, if it weren’t for the all too vivid images of blue eyes, pink lips and miles of untouched, tan skin running circles through his mind. They are right there, all he has to do is reach out and catch them between his fingertips to hold on, but no matter how hard he tries, they are gone before he can touch them. Dean’s nap isn’t relaxing, because even when he’s not awake, it feels like Cas is _there_ , even when he’s not. That’s just Dean’s imagination; another instance of wishful thinking. Nothing’s changed. Dean’s still empty. Empty now that he’s facing what it means to be without someone he didn’t know he needed; not like this. This, when he can’t get his head on straight a single moment of a single day because he’s trying so hard to tell himself he hasn’t really lost Cas; this, when he feels Cas’ lips on his own even though they are long gone; this, when he can’t help but long for them despite knowing it’s the piece of forbidden bliss he can’t have. This, when Dean doesn’t feel like half of himself without the bond—this glowing, warm, beautiful space inside of him—making him whole. When he wakes up, there are tears in his eyes, but he blames the uncomfortable position he’s fallen asleep in for that. 

With that vivid dream he’s had and all, he can only hope he hasn’t said anything during his nap. He used to do that when he was younger and it was a very different kind of nightmare keeping him from proper sleep. The ones filled with monsters he didn’t know yet, supernatural abnormalities he learned to fight when his arms were barely strong enough to hold a gun. Once upon a time, he’d thought there was nothing else demanding fear like the creatures life threw in their way on a daily basis, but that was before. Before he knew better. He’s since learned the hard way that there’s something a lot more terrifying out there than the unknown. It’s what you know; know like the back of your hand, know so well that it feels like second nature, like _breathing_ —and what it’s like to lose it. With the goddamn apocalypse, Dean can deal. What he cannot deal with is the emptiness Cas has left behind when he’d spread his wings to fly away for good this time. 

Sam’s sitting on his own bed across from Dean’s, his notebook on his lap and the signature wrinkle of concentration between his eyebrows. Dean rolls over and hopes Sam’s wearing his crinkled expression because of case research and not because he’s doing another Dr. Phil session of analyzing Dean and his coping mechanisms. 

“Dean—” he starts, and the tone of his voice says it all. Dean wants to walk out and slam the door, which is immature and unfair, since he knows Sam only means well. But dammit, Dean just can’t anymore. He’s tired, so tired of talking, tired of hurting. Hell, he’s fucking tired of breathing these days. His mind throwing memory after memory at him is hard enough as it is, but hearing Sam say how Cas is another name on Dean’s list of fuck ups he can possibly never fix is unbearable. 

And because Dean is a coward, he bails. “Got news on the case?” 

Sam shoots him his “fine, have it your way” look for one long moment before he sighs. “I might be onto something. Check it out.” 

 

An hour later, they are back on the road. Sam managed to get a lead on where the fucker could be hiding. They might not know what’s gonna work on him, but everything that could is stowed in the trunk of the Impala. 

“Maybe we should wait,” Sam says. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.” 

“Why?” Dean shoots back, even if he knows exactly why Sam’s agitated. Usually, they don’t step foot into the lion’s den without a guess about what’s gonna work with ganking the lion, which is what they’re about to do now. Dean’s gotta admit that’s mostly on him. As soon as Sam had—tentatively—shared the results of his research, Dean was up on his feet and ready to go, even despite Sam’s numerous objections. Sam accused him of taking off in a mad rush just to avoid dealing with what’s going on inside him and—surprise—he’s right on the money. Not like Dean cares. At this point, he’s up for anything offering distraction from this godforsaken emotional crap, even if that means he has to own up to the fact that there is, in fact, emotional crap going on. And what’s the world’s greatest way to divert your attention? Aside from sex obviously, it’s a good ole hunt. _That_ is familiar territory—black and white—something Dean understands and excels at. “Stop getting your panties in a twist, Sammy. This isn’t the first time we’re charging in without really having a clue what we’re up against.” 

“Yeah, and I can count the amount of times that went well for us on one hand,” Sam huffs. “We should turn around, get more intel. It’s too dangerous.” 

“We’re not turning around,” Dean argues. “We’re almost there and we packed everything we have. Something’s bound to work, we just have to try. Give it our best shot.” 

“Okay, I didn’t want to say it, but … ” Sam trails off on a pained sigh. “We’re down one man. Cas is not here, so maybe you should stop acting like he is. At least where our lives are concerned.” 

Goddammit, that hurt. Dean’s painfully aware of the fact that Cas is not here, but that doesn’t mean he’s immune to having it thrown in his face like that. He’s not ready to accept that Cas might never be back. Even when all the signs point to it, he can’t help holding onto this little sliver of hope he’s found inside him, in the exact same spot Cas or their bond or whatever it is used to be. 

“I know Cas is gone,” Dean says through gritted teeth. “Trust me, I do. But we’re not lost without him.” Okay, so Dean’s really not sure about that part, because _lost_ is actually a very accurate description of how he feels without Cas, but he keeps going and hopes Sam believes him when he says, “We’re still us. And we used to do this, just you and me, for _years_ and look at us. We’re alive. We can do this on our own, just like we’ve always done.” 

There are a few beats of silence where the only sound is the engine of the Impala whirring beneath them. It’s strained and uncomfortable, and Dean’s actually thinking about breaking it when Sam finally decides to answer. “I don’t like it, but I guess you’re right. But if we’re going to do this, you have to promise me something.” 

One look at him and Dean knows he’s serious. “Shoot.” 

“When I say we leave, we leave. No excuses.” 

Dean frowns as he’s trying to discern whether there’s a hidden message somewhere in Sam’s request, but gives up when he realizes that really, it could be anything. “Yeah, okay.” 

“Promise me,” Sam insists, leaning over the center console to level an imploring gaze at his brother. 

“Jesus. Fine. I promise.” 

Apparently, that’s enough for Sam to believe him, because he stays quiet for the rest of the drive. When they pull into the small strip of forest outside the abandoned warehouse Sammy’s pinpointed as their location, Dean sighs before he kills the engine. He feels that the air between them is not cleared yet, but decides against bringing it up again. What he wants to focus on now is hunting, nothing else. Just them and what they do best. 

“Are you ready?” he asks Sam. 

Sam’s wearing the expression that positively screams “this is a bad idea”. Dean’s seen it a hundred times before, and hey, maybe it is a bad idea. Maybe it is suicidal. But there’s still a chance of winning. Experience proves that. 

“As I’ll ever be,” Sam says after another moment of contemplation. 

Dean nods, and that seals it. They get out of the car and slam the doors at the same time before they meet up at the trunk and choose their weapons. Since they can’t take everything they have, they decide to go with a mix of what usually works best. Holy water, rock salt, silver bullets and a few other things they can cram in their pockets. 

Dean closes the trunk and locks the car, then they’re sneaking towards the seemingly abandoned building. 

“Be quiet,” Dean admonishes when Sam steps on a twig, the crack echoing loudly in the silence around them. 

“Sorry,” Sam whispers back. 

The warehouse seems to be empty, but they know better. That’s just what the inhabitants want to make everyone believe who comes too close. 

They make their way up from the sewers, climbing rusty ladders and squeezing through too-tight tunnels. Dean has to suppress a groan of relief when they finally come out on the ground floor of the warehouse and he gets to breathe in—relatively—fresh air. Sure, it’s stale and moldy, but better than the literal shit they were forced to breathe down in the sewers. 

“It’s too quiet,” Sam remarks as they make their way down a deserted hallway. 

He’s right. It’s far too quiet, which is usually a telltale sign for one thing: a trap. Regardless, Dean’s not going to anticipate the worst yet. Should he? Probably. But hell, he’s not going to chicken out before he gets a glimpse of what they’re dealing with. 

They reach the end of the hallway, where a heavy metal door blocks their way. Dean sneaks up on it, pressing his ear to the cool metal and concentrating on any sound he might pick up on the other side. There’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. His eyes meet Sam’s and then he nods his head, a silent “on three”. He holds his hand up and counts—one, two, three—and then they burst through the door and into the large open space on the ground floor. Everything happens pretty much at once after that. There’s a loud crash, as if they’ve walked straight into a thunderstorm, and Dean’s barely turning his head to see them surrounded by something that could be demons before he finds himself on the receiving end of a sucker punch that neatly takes his legs out from under him. 

His shoulder smashes into the rock-hard concrete vigorously enough to make his teeth chatter. For a second, all he sees is stars, then he gets a foot to the side and has to try his damned hardest to stay conscious. Somewhere over the rush of blood in his ears and the labored breathing punching its way out of his mouth, he hears the taunting and the cackling and the insults. Demons tend to dig into their minds and find what hurts the most, something he’s usually steeled against, but when he hears one of them mocking Cas and his relationship with the “filthy angel”, he feels a rush of angry adrenaline shoot through him from top to bottom. He’ll never know how, but he manages to recover his legs in a split second. It’s painful and demands more strength than he should have right now, but he does it. As his vision clears enough to make out his surroundings, he sees Sam pinned to the wall by some unseen force, his legs dangling in the air. By some wink of luck, Sam’s only a couple of feet away from him, so that’s where Dean’s headed. When he reaches him, he grabs his arms and pulls him from where he’s pushed against the wall. 

“Dean!” he gasps, “I think now’s a good time to get out of here! Come on!” 

Dean throws a look over his shoulder and sees about a dozen of the fuckers round in on them, manic grins on their faces. He gets his gun from the waistband of his jeans and shoots Sam a smile, teeth smeared with blood. “I think we’re just gettin’ started.”


	6. Sundown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks of the way he smells, fresh like the wind and warm like the sun, with this dash of elysian Dean can never quite put into words. He thinks of how much he wants to kiss him right now, just a little, to memorize how he tastes for wherever he goes next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for making you guys wait! I spent the last month traveling abroad and had literally zero time to write. Buuut I'm back and I hope you enjoy this update! <3

Two minutes. That’s how long it takes Dean to realize that Sam was right. They should’ve left when they still had the chance, because now? Shit’s hitting the fan and there’s no opening to make a run for it. They are still surrounded by enemies, even after they’ve taken out what feels like dozens of them. They just keep coming. And while they do, Sam and Dean’s strength is dwindling. Dean’s back to back with his brother, slowly moving around in a circle to keep an eye on whatever demon decides to strike first. It works for now, but the demons are getting closer, the circle around Sam and Dean in the middle growing smaller and smaller. Dean doesn’t want to think about what’s going to happen once there’s no space left between his brother and him and the enemies. God, Dean had _one_ job. One promise to keep, to get the hell out when Sammy told him to get the hell out. But Dean had decided to be the usual foolish badass he always is and if they bite the dust now, it’s on him. If there was a way to get Sammy out, Dean wouldn’t hesitate. Sacrificing himself for his brother is a no-brainer, just like it’s always been. If it would do any good, Dean would’ve already done it, but as of now, they are in the exact same situation and there’s no way out for either of them. He has to come up with something else, and preferably in under two minutes, because he guesses that’s how long it takes for the fuckers to reach them and then it’s going to be too late.

“Dean,” Sam says under his breath. “I just wanted you to know—”

“Shut it, Sammy,” Dean answers. He knows Sam’s tone, recognizes the intro. He’s about to give his ‘we’re about to die and I just wanted you to know I love you’ speech, the one he has at the ready whenever things don’t look good, the one that always makes Dean choke back tears. “We’re not there, okay? Not yet.”

Sam falls silent, his back straightening against Dean’s. They both look the worse for wear, but they gotta make it work somehow. They have to keep fighting. Dean slips back into  his fighting stance when he realizes the demons are about to go in for the kill. Deep down, Dean knows they don’t stand much of a chance. What they need is a goddamn miracle. Dean’s eyes fix on the huge, black-eyed demon closest to him. He barely has any strength left to take him out, but whatever damage he can do, he will do. He takes a deep breath, then another one, steeling himself for what could very well be his last chance.

“You’re done for, Winchester,” the demon snarls, eyes gleaming with victory. “You have no idea how good it feels to have you where we’ve been wanting you for ages: trapped. No escape.”

Dean fights down the cold shiver tingling down along his spine. The bastard may be right, but he’ll be damned if he caves in and tells him that.

“Dean,” Sam says. For some reason, it’s as urgent as it is quiet, and Dean knows Sam’s  about to do take two of the last goodbye speech, and for once, Dean wishes they had enough time to hear it. Sam doesn’t get the chance to say more than Dean’s name before the demons make their move. Dean turns and pulls Sam into his arms, shielding him from the first blow. He screams in pain when razor-sharp claws rip through the skin on his back. Within a moment, he’s transferred back to the time the hellhounds came to tear his soul out of his body and into the depths of hell, and he’s paralyzed. It feels just like it did then—the helplessness, the desperation, the fear—only ten thousand times worse because now he knows Sam’s experiencing the same thing and he can’t do anything to save him. He’s barely holding onto consciousness, his senses dulling under the amount of pain engulfing him like flames, and the last thing he sees is Cas. He thinks of the way he smells, fresh like the wind and warm like the sun, with this dash of elysian Dean can never quite put into words. He thinks of how much he wants to kiss him right now, just a little, to memorize how he tastes for wherever he goes next.

When Dean’s bathed into a blinding, white light, he wonders if this is it. He’s died before, but never has it felt quite like it does right now. It’s more like … finding something you’ve been missing for a very long time. Like coming home.

Dean comes to in a flash of light and screams and blood, back to a cold concrete floor, body hurting all over. There’s no way this is Dean’s Heaven. He knows better. After minutes, maybe hours, Dean manages to pull himself up to his elbows to take a look around the room. They are still in the warehouse, or at least he is. Sam’s nowhere to be seen. Only a couple feet away, Dean sees a single burst of light fight off dozens of demons. Dean doesn’t need to see more than this light—this beautiful, white-hot source of raw energy—to know. He feels it in his veins, pumping through his blood, the bond he’s thought lost. It’s there, and stronger than ever. Dean’s eyes gain more focus and then he sees wings, huge, shimmering wings almost touching the ceiling.

_Cas._

Dean tries and fails to get up, so he crawls. On his hands and knees, he crawls over to where Cas is fighting off the onslaught of enemies. Just when he’s close enough to maybe gank one of ‘em, the last one still standing tumbles to the floor, lifeless body crashing down right before Dean.

Dean watches as the light dims gradually, until it all absorbs into its human shell, and then he’s standing there—right in front of Dean, close enough to touch.

“Cas,” Dean whispers. He doesn’t make much of a sound, his voice rough and broken from screaming, but Cas hears him anyway. Just like he always does.

“Dean,” he says back. “Thank God, I made it.”

Dean has a moment to take in the beautiful smile touching Cas’ lips before Cas drops to his knees. He’s breathing heavily, his clothes torn and soaked with blood. Dean heaves himself closer, until his hand sinks into a bloody mess of feathers. Cas’ feathers. He’s hurt. His wings look _broken._ An involuntary whimper escapes Dean at the sight of something so intrinsically linked to Cas violated like that.

“Cas,” he tries again. Cas doesn’t react. His eyes are closed. “God, Cas.”

With the last strength Dean can muster, he pulls Cas in his arms and buries his nose against his neck. He doesn’t let go.

 

* * *

 

It’s quiet. The only thing Dean can hear is his own breathing, coming in soft, shallow pants.

He’s alive. He’s _still_ alive.

He knows because everything’s hurting like a bitch, hurting in a way that leaves no doubt about being decidedly _not_ dead. Dean tries to move, but quickly decides against doing it. He’ll just lie there for now, his eyes closed. As long as he’s in this limbo between sleeping and waking, he doesn’t have to deal with what’s happened; doesn’t have to wake up to find out what or who they’ve lost this time and fucking _cope_ with it _._ He’d rather not know, even if that makes him a coward. Dean doesn’t know how much time passes until he’s ready to face the music—or _feels_ ready, at least—but he finally blinks his eyes open. He takes a tentative breath, lets the air fill his chest, before he turns his head slightly to the right to find out where he is. There’s a couch pulled all the way to his bedside, a worn brown leather monstrosity, and on top of it—Dean releases the breath he’s held in a gust of relief—is Sam, curled up and fast asleep. From what Dean can make out beneath Sam’s ridiculous mane, he looks pretty beat up, complete with dark bruises around his jaw and a swollen shiner. A wave of guilt crashes over Dean, but at least Sam’s breathing. He made it out of there, and Dean has no doubt that the only reason why is because Cas was there to save his brother. And him. Again. God, please let him be here. Dean can count the number of things he’s ever really, _really_ wanted in his life on one hand, and right now, seeing Cas is one of them.

He groans quietly as he turns his body to the left, hazy eyes surveying the room. At first, Dean thinks it’s his imagination—the heap of dark hair and fawn trench coat on the second bed in the room. He blinks once and then again for good measure, but what he’s seeing doesn’t change, and he’s beyond grateful for that. Cas is lying on his back, eyes closed. He’s not breathing, but then again, angels don’t really have to do that. Even if there’s no visible sign of life from Cas, Dean knows he’s alive. The excited buzzing of the bond inside him is proof enough. If Dean could get up and walk, he’d be over in a heartbeat, sliding in next to Cas and holding him while they heal. As it is, he can’t move a muscle, but what he can do is reach out and cross the small space between their beds to take Cas’ hand in his. It’s cooler than usual, but perfect. _So_ perfect. Dean wishes he could kiss it, kiss Cas. As he’s trying to come up with a way to do that while he’s ninety percent incapacitated, his eyelids keep fluttering closed. A few minutes later, he gives in and drifts off into a dreamless sleep, knowing the two people he loves most are alive and breathing next to him. 

When Dean wakes again, Sam’s gone. Before his eyes are properly open, his entire body is seized by a wave of horror at finding the chair his brother had occupied before empty. He can’t hold back the quiet groan that leaves his lips when he turns around to look for a phone or a piece of paper. Maybe Sam’s left him a message and he’s freaking out for nothing. _God,_ please let him freak out for nothing. If the fuckers came back to finish what they started, they are dead meat. _Deader_ meat, whatever. There’s no chance they can put up a fight in their current condition.

Dean manages to swipe the phone off the nightstand and unlock it with a numb thumb to find— _thank God_ —a message from Sam.

 

 

> _Took the room next to yours. Cas and you are knocked out for now, but once you come to, I’m sure you have a lot to talk about._
> 
> _You’re welcome._
> 
>   _PS: Shoot me a text when you get this. I wanna make sure you aren’t dead, especially since you looked so much like it ;)_

 

Dean drops the phone on his chest and closes his eyes. The wave of relief feels like a physical caress and he can’t believe they made it out of yet another death trap. This could’ve gone very differently, if it weren’t for … if it weren’t for Cas.

Despite how much Dean’s hurt him, he came back when they needed him. When they needed saving. He’s still here.

Dean opens his eyes and sends the text Sam's requested. Then he turns to the bed next to him. Cas hasn’t moved an inch. He’s still out—his trench coat rumpled, dress shirt unbuttoned at the top and his tie undone—and seeing him like this makes Dean snap. He can’t stand being away from him for another moment. He tests his legs and finds his body doesn’t hurt as much as it did when he woke up what he assumes must’ve been a couple hours before. Not that it matters. No pain in this world could stop him from standing on shaky legs and trembling his way over to where Cas’ is resting on the queen bed. Dean doesn’t stop; doesn’t wait to question if it’s right or wrong or if he should or shouldn’t be doing this. It’s easy too, just slipping under the covers where Cas is close and his body warmth is all-encompassing and so familiar. Dean sighs unabashedly when his shoulder brushes Cas’. This is exactly where he wants to be; where he should’ve been all along. His breathing comes easy, even while his heart squeezes with elation. And then Cas turns, only slightly, but enough to face Dean, his eyes still closed—as if he’s unconsciously trying to be closer to Dean. Dean does the same, turning onto his side until he’s face to face with Cas. It’s just that looking isn’t enough. He needs to touch him, _feel_ him. His hand reaches for Cas before he knows what he’s doing, wandering over the fitted sheet and up to Cas’ hand, which is resting on the pillow next to his head. Dean trails his fingertips over Cas’ knuckles, gentle and slow, torn between not wanting to wake him and longing to see those unique blue eyes looking back at him. He scoots another inch closer, close enough to feel Cas’ breath on his lips, and his toes curl in anticipation. His fingers thread with Cas’ and he’s holding him tight while he takes in Cas’ sleeping face, from the tousled hair over the arch of his brow and down his straight nose to his plump, pink lips. Dean licks his own lips. God, how badly he wants to close his eyes and kiss Cas right now. He wants it more than he wants his next breath. Just when Dean’s about to lose the last sliver of self control, Cas’ eyes flutter open and there it is—eyes so blue you can’t help but get lost in them. And getting lost in Cas is exactly what Dean needs right now. He smiles when Cas yawns big and stretches his legs.

“Mornin’, sleepyhead.”

“Good morning,” Cas replies. His voice is lower than usual and definitely raspier than usual.

If Cas notices Dean’s hand in his, he doesn’t say anything. Dean isn’t sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. After all, it would be stupid to believe Cas still wants him after he’s told him to leave. The thought makes Dean’s breath hitch with a spike of fear, but he snaps out of it before Cas can notice anything off about him.

“How are you feeling?” Cas asks, concern heavy in his voice. Dean can’t believe he still cares enough to ask. Cas is always putting him first, even when he has no right to be first.

“How are _you_ feeling?” he asks instead. “That was a pretty badass stunt you pulled there.” Then he swallows and meets Cas’ gaze head on. “Thank you. You saved us. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

Cas bites his lip, another one of those too-human, too-adorable things he’s adopted over time. “Of course, Dean. Always. Don’t thank me for—”

“Hell yes I’m thanking you, Cas. You risked your life to save us, don’t even try telling me you didn’t. And when somebody marches in—or _flies_ in, in your case—all ready to sacrifice themselves for you, you ought to at least say thank you.”

A ghost of a smile touches Cas’ lips and Dean’s urge to kiss him becomes unbearable. If he were a weaker man, Cas would be pinned under him right now. God, Dean wishes he were a weaker man, just for the excuse, because holding back—doing the right thing—is virtually impossible. He wants Cas so bad, more than he ever did before. Before was nothing, he knows that now.

Now that Dean knows what it means to lose him and what it feels like to be saved by him, again. Despite every objection.

Now that Cas is lying right next to him, looking up with those impossibly blue eyes, biting his lip.

“Well, if you insist,” Cas says, a soft blush rising in his cheeks. “You’re welcome.”

Dean smiles at him and scoots a tiny bit closer. Cas does, too, and then there’s no space left between them.

“I missed you so much,” Dean breathes. He’s done pretending. They have right now, and he’s dead set on making it count. He bundles Cas up in his arms, holding him tight, and buries his face against his neck. This is Cas, _his_ Cas—soft, warm, so damn perfect. Cas’ scent sneaks into his nose and Dean drinks it in, savoring every note. It’s familiar and new at the same time. Dean wants to learn every nuance of it.

“I missed you, too,” Cas whispers into Dean’s hair, voice quiet and wobbly. “Being away from you has been exceptionally hard.”

Cas shivers. It’s obvious that their separation has taken its toll on him as well, and Dean just wants to hold him closer. So he does.

“I’m so sorry, Cas,” he says. It comes out on a broken whisper, but he keeps going. This is what he owes Cas. “I made a terrible mistake. I should’ve never asked you to leave, I—I was … confused and scared and I didn’t know how to deal with … with the way I felt about you. The way I _feel_ about you.”

Cas’ breath hitches. Dean’s heart misses a beat. He’s never been this honest with Cas before. There’s not a sliver of regret, but this is Cas, and he’s never felt for anybody the way he feels for Cas, not even close. And now, he’s scared. Scared that it’s too late, that he’s made one mistake too many.

Cas slips out of Dean’s hug, which takes a fair amount of struggling since Dean is very reluctant to let go, and sits up. Dean follows him and leans back against the headboard, waiting. Considering they’re having a very important conversation right now, he should really try not to be distracted by Cas’ adorable bed head or the button on his shirt that’s about to become undone.

“Dean, how—” he breaks off and takes a deep breath before starting again. “How _do_ you feel about me?”

Cas is not looking at him, so Dean inches closer and touches his knuckles to Cas’ chin, nudging him gently to look up. Their eyes meet and Dean feels desire flare again, hot and unbridled. All-consuming.

“Don’t tell me you won’t even look at me, now that I’ve got my head on straight and am about to confess to you?” Dean asks, smiling softly.

Cas swallows. Dean’s gaze drops to his throat for a second, distracted by the motion, and he has to fight down another wave of longing. Cas’ neck is irresistible. Dean wants to suck on every inch of skin, lick every bit of stubble. God, he can’t think clearly. He has to snap out of it. This is important. His eyes come back to Cas’, who’s staring right back, waiting.

Dean takes Cas’ hands in his. He’s beyond grateful Cas lets him. He should probably be nervous, but instead, the simple touch is enough to calm him. At least a little.

Here goes nothing.

“Cas,” he starts. Dean forces himself to hold eye contact. He sucks at this, and his ingrained defenses tell him to look anywhere but at Cas, so looking at him is exactly what he does. “I’m so sorry. For the way I treated you. I know now that I’ve always been attracted to you, and when we started this—this _thing_ where we kiss and touch and cuddle, it went up like, sky high. I don’t know when it happened, exactly. Maybe it was always there, but I … I fell for you, Cas. Hook, line and sinker.”

Dean stops to take another deep breath. Wow, this is intense. He’s having trouble keeping his tears at bay. And Cas—good, pure, darling Cas—just holds his hands tighter, runs his fingers over Dean’s, a silent ‘I’m here, keep going’.  

“Idiot that I am, I freaked and pushed you away. I hurt you, and god, please believe me when I say it’s the worst mistake I’ve ever made and I’m regretting it more than I can tell. But I … I love you, Cas. I love you so freakin’ much, and I don’t want to be apart from you ever again. Can you … I mean, _would_ you want to … to be with me?”

Dean messed up that last bit. He should’ve been more suave, but he didn’t find the courage in himself. That’s the moment where losing Cas for good is just an answer away, and his entire body is curled tight with anxiety, because he just can’t tell what’s it going to be.

“Dean,” Cas says quietly. “Dean, look at me. Please.”

Dean didn’t even realize he’d dropped his gaze, but Cas’ warm fingers on his cheek draw his eyes right back up. That’s when he sees the single tear on Cas’ face and something inside him snaps. He might not have the right to comfort Cas when he’s been the one who hurt him in the first place, but he can’t stop himself. Never again does he want to see Cas hurting right there in front of him, without doing anything to soothe the pain.

Cas’ voice breaks off. There are more tears. Dean moves in and pulls Cas against his chest. “Shh, baby,” he whispers into Cas’ hair, “It’s okay, I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

He pulls back and kisses Cas’ face, the blush on his cheeks, the tears on his lips. He kisses the barely noticeable birthmark on his nose, the lock of hair that keeps falling on his forehead. He kisses the soft spot just behind his ear and the delicate hollow below his throat. Maybe it’s not fair. If he has the same effect on Cas as Cas has on him, kissing him like this is probably going to cloud his judgement. So even if it’s the last thing he wants, he pulls back to give Cas a chance to reply. He keeps his hands on Cas’ cheeks though, because if he can’t keep kissing him, he at least needs to touch him.

“I might not be good at understanding feelings, but what I do know is that you telling me to go back then hurt beyond belief,” Cas says. “I didn’t know where to go. Sam and you … you have become my home. So I went to Heaven and promised myself I’d never come back. But I couldn’t keep my promise. I couldn’t stand not knowing if you were alright, so there were times when I listened. When I felt the bond and sensed you. That was how I knew you were in grave danger the other day. I couldn’t stay away, and I’m glad I didn’t.”

“I’m glad you didn’t, too. And not just because I’d be dead otherwise.”

“Dean …” Cas’ hand cups the back of Dean’s neck, pulling him closer. Dean’s breath hitches in his throat when Cas touches their foreheads together. Dean feels Cas’ breath, warm and accelerated, and just this is so much like a kiss that Dean’s head is spinning. He doesn’t dare move a single muscle. It takes all he has not to give in and kiss Cas, and if he changes his current position, he knows he will. That’s literally all it takes.  

“Fuck,” Cas says. Dean barely gets the chance to laugh because Cas is actually cursing, but then Cas’ lips are on his and it’s like one single burst of emotions. Sweet relief, searing desire, warm familiarity. It’s like every empty nook and cranny inside Dean is suddenly filled with Cas and the sensation’s nothing short of spectacular. Dean’s kissed so many people in his lifetime—dozens, if not hundreds with all his manwhoring on the road—so many that the memories have blurred and meshed together without anything truly worth remembering sticking out of the pile. And then there’s Cas, with all his inexperience and impatience, and Dean can say with absolute certainty that no kiss he’s ever given or received tastes like _this._ He can’t put his finger on what it is, exactly. It might be the illusion of restraint Cas is putting up even while there’s barely containable desire simmering beneath the controlled surface. It might be the lack of refinement to the way he’s opening up Dean’s mouth with his lips. What Dean knows is that all his experience means nothing in this moment, for as the concept of kissing and everything that’s part of it feels so new and untouched to Dean as if this is his first time experiencing it—and he can’t even bring himself to mind, because that means his first kiss is Cas and that’s pretty fucking amazing. And Cas is not stopping. No, he’s kissing Dean harder, deeper, _more._ When Dean feels Cas’ hands on his chest, pushing him down on his back, he doesn’t resist. Cas is in his lap, hands on his face, tongue licking into his mouth, touching all the right places all at once. And Dean just _gives._ Somewhere at the back of his mind, he knows where this is going. He looks into Cas’ eyes. He knows, too.

“Cas, I … I want—”

“I know,” Cas breathes. “Me, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Kudos and comments are loved. ♥  
> I'm also on tumblr: [✉](https://angel-zoo.tumblr.com/)


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